Dusty Loves
by bellaknoti
Summary: Finn was never meant to leave her clan; losing Tamlen shattered her. Alistair struggles to put her back together, and make her see him as someone she can lean on. Meanwhile, the Bard and the Crow find they have more in common than it first seemed. (Suggest downloading pdf from main profile at dreamwidth, under this name. That one has better editing and a few new things.)
1. Prologue: The Journal

The hillside is scattered with leaves. His face above mine, he smiles in the golden autumn sunlight. "Caught you." He brushes a lock of hair away from my face. His blue eyes catch light like a waterfall. "You have leaves in your hair, _lethallan_."

"And the sun on my face," I reply. He smiles again. Oh, his smile. He takes my hands and pulls me up to sit next to him. I am breathless and blushing. He runs his fingers through my hair, dislodging all the leaves and debris, smiling at me with all that I have always seen there, and so much more.

"You know, I don't really think of you as a friend any more." I blink.

"What?" I am wounded!

"It's true. Look, I have been working with Ilen. I made this for you." I look down, and in his hands he holds a leather-bound book. The cover is tooled with star-shaped flowers and a swirling pattern that reminds me of fern leaves. The paper inside is a creamy yellow, heavy enough for sketching, light enough that there are many, many pages within.

"Tamlen," I breathe. "It's beautiful. How can I ever thank you?"

"I know how much you love to draw and write, so I made this for you. Because... I have realized... I have found the woman I want to bond with."

The bottom drops out of my stomach, I can feel the blood draining out of my face. A goodbye present. I feel sick. I swallow hard.

He is startled by my reaction, and puts his hands to either side of my face. "Are you all right?"

"Uh... That's great, Tamlen..." I whisper, my voice suddenly missing. I think I'm going to cry. He is studying me intently.

"I thought you would be happy."

I force a smile. "I am. You deserve to have the life you want." I look away. "Who is she?" He is silent so long, I look back to see what is wrong. He is sitting there, completely thunderstruck. Gently, he reaches out and turns the book over in my hands. At first, I see nothing but the pattern. But the longer I look at it, the more it begins to look like language... and then... I see it. Our names, in elvish, intertwined and cleverly set within the pattern. My mouth drops open in surprise.

"Yes, of course, _you_. What did you think, that I would abandon you?" He kisses me, then, for the first time, and I am electrified by it. I kiss him back, tangle my fingers in his hair.

When I open my eyes, the sunlight has turned to grey. The trees are blacker, bleaker. "But you did, my love, you did..." The weight of him is missing, and I sit up, but there is nothing but mud and ashes, naked trees and grey clouds. The book in my hands crumbles to dust and blows away.

I sit up abruptly, a scream bitten in half by my waking. There is that man I've been travelling with for two days, Duncan. He sits across the fire from where I had put my pallet to sleep. He watches me with dark eyes, dark hair, the exact opposite of my lost Tamlen. Duncan, who would not let me go after him. We were already bonded, even if we hadn't done the ceremony yet, we knew, we knew what we wanted. I should have died next to him, I should have gone with him. Now, the mirror is destroyed, and there's no going back, no finding him again, too late for everything.

I flee, out into the forest. A hillside, covered in leaves. I fall to my knees and weep for my lost love.


	2. Intoxicated

Pure ambrosia. It tastes like liquid summer, burns with the fire of the sun. She feels the sunshine, tastes the apples and honey.

She closes her eyes and sees him, standing in the sunlight, bow in hand, arrow measured to the goal, the flex of his arms and the certainty in his eyes. She remembers the strength of his body and the smell of his neck. She remembers the feel of the forest floor against her feet. His face rising above hers. "Caught you," he said. His hands holding hers, the journal lying heavy in her hands. Kissing on the hillside. That long night when he held her under the stars, and pledged his life to hers.

Somewhere along the way, she drops the empty bottle.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

He finds her. She is in the corner of a bar, under a bench against the wall. She reeks of wine and honey. He lays a hand against her shoulder. "Finn," he murmurs, trying to wake her. "Come on, we have to go back to camp." She crawls out from under the bench and tries to stand up, but she stumbles to the side. He tries to steady her, but her knees aren't working.

He picks her up and cradles her against his chest. His face is clouded, concern and anger warring for precedence. She wraps her arms around his neck and lays her head against his shoulder.

"Tamlen," she breathes, "You found me."

He sighs and shoulders open the door. The other patrons look at him pity or suspicion in their eyes. The latter, he can shoulder. It is the former that breaks his heart.

He trudges down the long road back toward camp. She falls asleep right away, before he has taken ten steps from the bar. His heart fills with dread as the time inches closer to half an hour since she closed her eyes against his shoulder. He knows what must inevitably come.

She begins to shake in his arms, in the throes of one of her dreams again. "Shh... shh... it's okay, you're safe," he murmurs under his breath. She begins to twitch, and he knows it's going to be a bad one. They near the river, and he sits on the ground, his back to a rock.

And none too soon, as she begins her thrashing shortly after that. He holds her by the wrists to keep her from hitting him, and waits for her to ride it out, to awaken. All the while, he repeats her name, tries to call her back, tells her she's safe, that it's all a dream. Just like all the other times, the only useful action he's taken is to hold on to her.

She wakes, screaming, again. "No! NO! _Tamlen_!" The name echoes out into the night, a cry of horror and loss. But she is awake now, staring out at the trees. "Tamlen," she says, her voice breaking with the sob that starts the crying. He pulls her against him, waiting for her to still again. She buries her face in his neck and pours her broken heart all over his shirt.

When at last she shudders to a halt, he stands up and carries her back to camp. She always falls asleep this way, and never remembers it in the morning.

Leliana and Morrigan look up as his footsteps draw nearer to the fire. He lays Finnariel out on her bedroll and covers her with his cloak. Ponka sniffs her from head to toe, and settles down next to her. He fixes Alistair with a reproachful look.

He spreads his hands. "Hey, I'm just trying to keep her safe, the same as you." Ponka snorts and closes his eyes. She rolls in her sleep and throws her arm around his neck.

Sten comes with a load of firewood and lays it down behind a log. He dusts off his tunic and breeches, then kneels next to the bubbling stew-pot. Leliana bats his hand away. Sten gives her a sharp look, but she laughs at him playfully. His expression softens somewhat. "It's not finished yet; the potatoes are still hard." Sten grunts and stands outside the firelight, his back to it, staring out into the night.

Alistair sighs heavily and drops onto a log set by the fire. He tries to focus on repairing the leather straps of his shield, but his gaze keeps straying to Finn, who is beginning to shake again. Ponka lifts his head and whines. He looks at Alistair, his big doggy face full of worry.

Alistair sighs and nods. Ponka moves out of the way as Alistair sits down next to her. Immediately, she clutches on to his shirt, moaning and muttering in her sleep. He startles back, surprised at this new development. She pulls on him, pulling him off-balance, and he ends up laying next to her. She grabs onto him and buries her face in his shoulder.

He can hear her, now. "Alone, alone," she mumbles, "You left me all alone..."

He watches her, her face twisting in pain. It pierces him through the heart, the full measure of her pain. He looks at Leliana and Morrigan, both wearing identical expressions of shock. "Help," he whispers, "She thinks I'm him." He tells them what she's saying.

Leliana whispers back. "Tell her who you are. Change the direction of her dream."

He leans down to whisper in her ear. "Finn, it's me, it's Alistair... remember? You're a Gray Warden now. We're family now, right? Isn't that what you told me? You're not alone." He catches her hand. "You're not alone, Finnariel, come back to me."

The shaking stops, and she relaxes. "Alistair...?" she breathes.

"Yes," he answers.

She smiles, so beautiful, peaceful, and innocent. She curls against him, and he wraps his arms around her, feeling protective. "I love you," she sighs, nestling into the hollow of his shoulder. He squeezes his eyes shut.

He doesn't know if she's talking to him, or Tamlen. But, for now, it is _his_ arms she is content to lie in, so he kisses her forehead, and guards her through the night from the demons of her past.


	3. Going Home

"Alright, alright, I'll look at the map."

Alistair had been after her for days. "Don't you even want to know where we're going?" Impatience in his voice, a plea on his face, and an ache in his heart. Her gaze slides away, unfocusing at the trees, her mind already fading to the past.

He drops his head briefly. He is hunched over a stump, the map laid out between them. The light of the fat, waxing moon lends a silvery sheen to her skin, and the pale tattoo stands out in sharp detail. He wants to smooth away the lines of sorrow, ease the sharp edges of her shattered heart.

But she isn't really responding to him. She fights, she wants to live, but there is a hollowness that he cannot reach, not with the echo of another man's arms still about her. Leliana can, in some ways; Finn will lean against her, let the bard play with her hair and chatter away. He even saw them kiss, once, but Finn was miles away. Leliana, he feels sorry for her; she didn't seem to notice Finn's distraction.

But now, it is important that she pay attention, be _present_, or they will be unprepared. "Finn." He calls her name twice more before he finally gets fed up. His voice is hard when he uses her full name, in elvish, the lilting, strangely rhyming name that feels like liquid on his tongue.

_"Finnariel Mahariel."_

She jumps, suddenly crashing down into the here and now. His smile is wry. "Don't look so shocked. I _was_ listening, you know. I do that." Then he points at her. "But _you_ have _not_, and this is important. So, _look_ at the _map_. This is where we are... and _this_ is where we will be in two days' time."

Obediently, she looks down. At first, her expression is bored, merely humouring him. But then he sets his finger down on the map, and her eyes fly open. She looks up at him sharply when it comes to rest.

"The Brecilian Forest?" Her mouth feels like it's full of marbles. She's suddenly miles away again, she sees right through him. She jumps to her feet, gaze fixed on some distant point. Alistair stands, his hands held out cautiously, wary for a sudden movement.

She bolts.

Alistair is ready. He leaps to the side and wraps his arms around her waist. "Oh no you don't!" Her momentum spins them around and he rolls to take the brunt of the impact as they careen to the ground. She thrashes like a wild thing, but he is more deft at grappling.

Soon he has wrestled her to her back and pinned her to the ground. He straddles her, hands pressing her shoulders down. Her face is defiant. "Heh. Caught you," he pants.

She freezes, stone-still. He cannot figure out why she looks so shocked... and... horrified? She flings her head to the side, her hair falling over her face, and begins to shake. It's just like one of her dreams. He scrambles off of her, and she rolls to the side, curling into a tight little ball.

Leliana comes running over, skidding to a halt next to Finn. Her face is set in a scowl that she directs at Alistair. "What did you do?" she demands, setting her hands protectively on Finn's arm. He holds his hands up: I surrender.

"I just told her she's going home. She was going to run all the way to the Brecilian Forest. Tonight. I caught her. That's all!"

Finn spends the night in Leliana's tent. Alistair broods over first watch.

Dawn comes too quickly for all of them, except Finn, who sets a leg-breaking pace. They all have to practically run to keep up with her, and they reach the Forest a little under a full day ahead of schedule.

_"Andaran atish'an,"_ she says.

"_Aneth ara,_ sister," Finn replies, her voice cracking.

The Dalish hunters look at all the rest of them with distrust as they put their arms around Finn's shoulders. "What about the _Shemlen_?" one of them asks.

Finn looks over her shoulder, the tears plain on her face. "They're my friends."

Reluctantly, the hunters allow the rest of them to follow. _"Ma nuvenin, lethallan,"_ the leader says, uneasy.

They follow behind Finn, into the Dalish camp.

Trying to get anywhere with Finn today becomes a lost cause, once she is enfolded into the tribe. The rest of the group make camp in the forest, outside of the Dalish grounds, and wait. Alistair won't leave her side.

Finn spends a large part of the afternoon by the fire, sitting with a man named Sarel, who seems to be the clan's storyteller. She cries as she tells them of the events that led to her coming into this camp. Every face echoes her sorrow, and a few of the women come to sit beside her, to pet her hair, hug her, and sing a heartbreaking, keening song with her. Alistair feels awkward and leans against a tree, trying to look inconspicuous.

Eventually, being in the arms of her people, she calms. After a time, as the camp life goes on around her, she begins to relax, as well, and soon she is genuinely laughing and honestly smiling, something Alistair has never seen her do. All her smiles have been sad, all her laughter forced. He had no idea until now, and this, too, hurts him.

She joins the women, carrying baskets of herbs and vegetables out of the woods, making dinner. Over the fire, as they all eat, the clan tells her of their plight, of the curse and the ravening beasts who have been taking down their hunters, one by one. Finn is horrified. Her bowl sits in her hand, roasted tubers and deer forgotten. "_That_ is why there are so many wounded on the cots?" Sombre faces all around give her the unspoken answer.

Her face sets with resolve. "I will go into the wild, I will find these things, and I _will_ kill them." The others are all shocked, and try to dissuade her, but she is firm. "No. Do not fret for me. I have the strongest people I could ever ask for at my back. These things... these _beasts_ will fall before us like so many felled saplings, and the wood will be safe again. Such a threat cannot stand, or _all_ the clans will suffer losses we can ill afford as they pass through this place."

She looks around the ring of faces. They are worried, all, but there is also now a spark of hope. She smiles, grateful to help them as much as they have just helped her. "We will depart at first light." She makes her goodbyes, and rises to leave. Outside of the firelight, a young man catches her sleeve and speaks to her earnestly. Alistair is too far away to hear what he says, but she looks sad, then nods.

He catches up to her as the younger man steps back and turns toward the fire. "What was that about?" he murmurs. She shakes her head.

"Just a minute, and I'll explain, but first I have to go talk to that pretty girl over there."

He stands next to one of their caravans and listens. "Gheyna, Cammen says you will not bond with him until he's had his hunt. Is this so?"

The girl nods. "He's not truly a man unless he's brought down his first kill."

Finn ducks her head and sighs, then looks back at the girl. "Tell me, do you love him? Truly?" Gheyna colours, but nods. "Then listen carefully. I was bonded, once." Finn swallows hard, her skin going just a little paler. "You never-" her voice cracks, but she continues. "You never know how much time you have. Do not let something so trivial stand in the way of whatever time you may be granted. Love him, and love him well. Do not deny your hearts, lest you come to bitterly regret all those wasted moments." Finn turns away as fresh tears threaten.

Gheyna dashes off before Finn has finished straightening. Alistair watches her meet with the young man in the shadows of the firelight. She kisses him passionately. The boy is surprised, then awed, then delighted. They kiss again, then run off, hand in hand.

Finn is at his side, watching his face. He feels the easy smile that curves his lips, and knows he's caught. The weight of her gaze has changed. Something dark within her has flown. She is softer, _present_. They begin walking back toward their camp. Outside of the Dalish caravans, she stops and looks up at the sky.

"Alistair-" her voice catches, and she takes a deep breath. "I..." she begins, but then she looks at him. He is close, and she can _see_ him, now, and all that has happened suddenly falls into place. She sees him with new eyes. He watches her face soften, the look she has often had while miles away, she suddenly looks at him that way, and he is at a loss for words. She sways toward him, and he lifts his hands, but she loses her nerve and drops her gaze. The moment passes. He flexes his fingers at his sides, counselling himself to patience, again.

"I wanted to thank you," she murmurs. "Thank you for bringing me home." She smiles then, looking up at him askance, and he sees her face in profile. But that smile, it's real, and it's for _him._ She turns and heads off into the darkness, and he follows behind, grinning like a fool, on top of the world.

She _saw_ him.

The waiting around part is _awesome_.


	4. Echoes of the Present

_Finnariel sits next to Ashalle, peeling a leek. A basket with a handful of mushrooms, and some herbs and berries still left in it sits upon a stone next to her. Ashalle efficiently peels a dwindling pile of sweet potatoes. They smile, each intent on their jobs, in silent competition. Finnariel's basket is nearly empty, but a potato is quickly peeled at the pace Ashalle can move her knife._

A hand falls lightly upon her left shoulder a split second before she hears the murmur in her right ear. "Caught you." She jumps, letting out a startled squeak. He laughs softly as he rests his chin on her shoulder.

"Tamlen," she admonishes, her heart still racing. "It doesn't count," she protests, "We weren't even runni-" She turns her face too quickly and finds herself close enough that she can feel his breath on her skin. When did this begin, these things he does to her heart? She has hesitated too long, and he pulls back a little bit and arches an amused eyebrow. Then he grins.

"Guess what I've brought you."

She smiles back. "Hmmm... Is it... strawberries?" He shakes his head. "No. Oh! Is it... hmm... a new paring knife?" He shakes his head "no" again, and the impish twinkle in his eye brightens. "No? Aw. Okay, one more. Is it... rabbits?" His grin widens, and she knows she's guessed. "Rabbits!"

No one is better at pinning down the fast little creatures; he is the best archer in their clan. Finnariel throws her arms around Tamlen's shoulders. "Eee! Thank you!"

He produces a furry bundle as she sits back. "So, have I earned a place at your fire?" Inside the cleaned skins, there is a fair pile of cleaned, boned, and sliced meat.

Finnariel blushes and brushes her arm against his. "Oh, I suppose." She feigns a put-upon demeanour, but can't maintain it. He pokes her in the ribs and she giggles. Every evening, the same question, every evening, the same answer. Yes, of course.

She turns back to her basket to find Ashalle triumphantly dicing the last of her potatoes into the pot. She turns to Finnariel, smug. "Ah-ha, you get to do the washing," she teases.

"Oh, hey, not fair, Tamlen distracted me!"

Ashalle grins over her shoulder as she places the tripod over the fire. "Ah, dogs bark, but the caravan goes on."

Finnariel sticks her tongue out at Ashalle, then turns to Tamlen. "You're helping me," she says, shortly. He laughs. Time slows down. She can see the side of his face, the turn of his head, the breath of wind that pushes a lock of hair over his eye. His hand brushes hers as he reaches into the basket. He caresses the back of her hand with his own as he withdraws a handful of herbs. Her heart and breath catch at the same moment. The sun shining through the trees behind him blinds her.

"Of course," he says.

She frowns. That's not right... She opens her eyes. She is lying on her bedroll, Alistair sitting next to her. Her legs are hooked under his knees and she has her arm wrapped around his waist. He's propped an arm on her, his elbow at her shoulder, his hand on her waist. Leliana laughs softly.

"All right, all right, so tell me, you said you can sense them. How does that work?"

He is quiet for a while. "Well, it's not really something we're supposed to talk about, so... there's not a lot I can tell you. But... it involves magic, and after it's done..." He stares off into the darkness, then visibly shakes himself. "Ah, after it's done, they... it's like a smell, only it's not really there. It's hard to explain, but there's no mistaking it."

"What about that night when she dreamed of a dragon, and you said you had had that dream too?" Alistair does not respond immediately, and Finn can hear the cat-and-cream smile in her voice. "You thought I wasn't listening, didn't you. You're connected to them somehow. But if that is so, can they be connected to you?"

Alistair sighs. "I wouldn't be surprised to find it."

Finn listens to the fire crackle and pop. Leliana throws another log on. The wind sighs through the trees, but with Alistair on one side and the fire on the other, she's warm. She doesn't want to move, and this is a revelation of its own.

Just as Finn is about to drift off again, contemplating the implications of her apathy, Leliana murmurs, "How is she, really?"

"Not so good, I think. She was better there, for a while, when we were amongst her people, but then the way it all happened-"

He lifts his hand away from her side to gesture and a blast of cold air slides across her skin, right through her tunic. She shivers.

He puts his arm back down and turns slightly. The warmth of his body is a second sharp contrast, and she can feel the weight of him hovering above her; she finds it strange that this brings her such a sense of peace. After a moment, he turns back and resumes in a quieter voice. "I would almost think it might have been better to go some place else entirely, if it weren't for one thing."

"What's that?"

"Well, she still doesn't remember anything. But when she fights, she lets me stop her thrashing. She still screams. But when I've got her, sometimes if I tell her that it's me, she'll open her eyes, and she'll _see_ me, and then... It's like she'll let me save her from drowning, but only if she doesn't know it."

"Do you worry that one night she may wake up and find herself like this? With you?"

"Yeah, I try to be careful about that. The problem is, after she's had these dreams, she seems to... _need_ me to stay. So... hopefully she... won't hit me."

Her head swirls with so many unanswered questions. Family, she had said. It had been a moment of weakness, a longing for something that had been ripped out at the root, a way to balm the ragged edges, stop the bleeding. Alistair had embraced that much more fully than she had; her words had been as hollow as her heart. His had not. He deserves enough respect that she should at least mean the things she says to him.

Even amongst her own people, while the routine was comfortable enough to give her a sense of grounding, they are not her clan. And her place amongst _them_ has died from the Taint. Her home is with the Wardens, with Alistair, now - her own words. That was when she thought she could never go back. Is it any less true? Seeing them again hurt, but also closed up that emptiness. Her people are still there, but her home has gone. So what now? This peace, this comfort she feels here, with these shemlen, with this Warden, her brother-in-arms, her friend, is this a betrayal?

"You love her," Leliana says.

"Oh, I didn't say-" he protests, but Leliana interrupts.

"Don't bother to deny it. You already asked me about it." She drops her voice low in pitch to imitate his, "So you're a female, right?" She laughs quietly, no trace of malice.

He sighs and laughs under his breath. "All right, okay, so, yes. It doesn't change anything."

"Oh, I don't know, you just said you were having an effect on her."

"That's at night. She only reaches for me in her sleep. Everything is still the same in the morning." His voice is sad.

"They say the things that we do and dream while we are sleeping are expressions of the the things we can't allow ourselves while we are awake. What have _you_ dreamed about that you couldn't have?"

There is a pause, and then Leliana laughs again. "It's something to think about, no? I'm going to bed." Finn hears her squeak, and knows the stretch that causes it. She smiles.

"Goodnight," Alistair replies.

A rustle of canvas, then just the quiet of the night.

After a while, Alistair slowly lifts his arm from her side, pulling a cloak over her to keep the wind off. He unwinds her arm from his waist and kisses her fingers before turning to tuck it in next to her. As he pulls the cloak over her shoulder, he looks at her face, and freezes.

"Uh... hey, I didn't mean to wake you up. Third watch isn't for another few hours."

"I've been awake for a while, actually," she whispers. He pales, but she grabs his hand before he can move back.

"Then..."

"Yes. I heard."

Alistair sits down again. She props herself up on her elbow and wipes her eyes on her sleeve. She tries to look him in the eye, but he glances away. There is an awkward silence. He looks at her again, and she holds his gaze. "Well... then... do you think you could... ever... come to feel the same way... about me?"

She takes a deep breath. "I don't know, Alistair... it's... too soon."

"Is it too soon for this?"

He kisses her, and his lips are soft and warm. She leans into him, and he puts his arms around her, pulling her closer in a sudden surge of emotion. She gasps, and somewhere within, something gives way like a burst riverbank at spring flood, and she is choking on it. She pulls back abruptly and bursts into silent tears, covers her face with her hands. She hears him curse under his breath as he begins to move away, but she reaches out again, to grab his hand.

"I don't know, I don't know, but don't- Just stay here for a while? I... You've been here for me, _all this time-_ I didn't know! And now I do, and how am I-" Her face is agonized, and she chokes again. When she continues, her voice has dropped to a whisper. "I just want to sit and talk. With you. Please?"

He sits next to her again and she lays her head on his shoulder. Tentatively, he puts his arm around her waist. She squeezes her eyes shut and turns her face to his neck, letting her hair fall across her cheek.

"That first night, after Ostagar, I thought-"

"I know."

"What about the night I had that bottle of honey whiskey-"

"Yes."

"I would dream that he was there behind me, telling me everything was alright, holding my arms, stopping me, even as I was watching him-"

"That was me."

"And right after Lothering, I was-"

"Running through the wood, half-naked."

"_That's_ why my feet were cut."

"I tried to help you, but you were flailing around too much. We had to wait until morning."

"Did I punch you?"

"And bit at me." His smile is rueful.

She sighs. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea."

"I know."

Finn reaches up and lays her hand flat against his other shoulder. Her voice is thin and reedy with emotion, as she forcibly pulls each sentence from her mouth. "I'm sorry, Alistair. I haven't been fair to you. Even if I didn't know it, you deserve more than what I've given." She takes a shuddering breath. "But... I can't make you any promises. I'm so..." Her throat constricts with all the anguish and darkness that she cannot express.

He kisses her forehead. "I know." He swallows. "So am I," he whispers. "There's nothing but blood and wreckage behind us, and the promise of more, every day, maybe until we slay the archdemon, maybe until we die. Maker, that's bleak. But... right now, this night, this moment: I'm here, and you're here, and it's quiet. For a little while, we could sleep, and the world could be alright for a few hours without us."

"Sleep?"

"Yes."

"With you?"

"Um. Well, you _have_ been, just about every night, anyway... when you _do_ sleep, that is... You don't like to let go, much."

"Tsh. You are not the first to say so." She takes a deep breath and looks at him for a moment. "All right. Here, then." She pulls the cloak back up and looks at him expectantly. He is surprised, as she pushes him backwards to lie on his back, mostly on her bedroll. Surprised, as she tucks herself under his arm, surprised as she puts her arm around his waist and her head on his shoulder.

Surprised at how quickly she falls to sleep upon his chest, her ear pressed to his heart. He stares up at the stars, listening to her soft breathing. He scrubs his free hand over his face. "Right," he murmurs. "Right. I can handle this. I hope."


	5. Detour

"I want to go back."

Finn looks up from her bowl of soup, a dripping crust of bread in her hand. "What?"

Alistair has been silently staring into the fire for so long, she had nearly forgotten he is there. He looks at her, now. "Ostagar. I want to go back."

Finn's mouth drops open. "It's crawling with darkspawn!"

His sad smirk is edged with bitterness. "I doubt there are many left, now that there's nothing left alive to devour. They will have moved on by now."

She looks down. No longer hungry, she sets her bowl aside. Rummaging in her pack, she pulls out the rolled leather that contains their map, then casts about for stones to weight it down. Once they have it flattened out, they sit, shoulder to shoulder, and trace the paths of the roads.

"If we turn south now, we can reach Ostagar in... maybe a week and a half," he says.

She nods. "But then we have to get back out again. That's a long time to spend in their territory. Look: we'll cross into their path here, heading toward the Korcari Wilds, through here... west to Ostagar... then up this way... north-west to Redcliffe... they'll be everywhere."

Finn chews her lip and looks at her companions. Ponka lies by the fire, eyeing Morrigan's stew bowl. "Oh, no, you do not fool me, you big furry lump. This is _my_ lunch." Ponka whines piteously, and Morrigan rolls her eyes. She flips a piece of potato out of her bowl with the side of her spoon. Ponka catches it before it hits the ground, then barks with approval. Leliana snickers. Sten paces restlessly along the perimeter of the camp, begrudging the time and lost daylight while they eat and check the map.

She looks back to Alistair. He is turned away, looking south. She sighs softly. "Okay. Let's go." He turns back suddenly, searching her face intently.

Before she can react, he seizes her face in both hands and kisses her fiercely. "Thank you," he says. Finn startles back, but he is already on his feet, striding across the camp toward Sten. She touches her fingertips to her lips, the warmth of his still lingering. Ponka trots up to her and drops her pack at her feet. He barks once, happily, and grins at her.

"Let's go, right?" Ponka barks again, then runs back and forth between her and their intended road, trying to get her to hurry. She rolls up and stows the map, shrugs on her pack. The others scramble to follow. Leliana stuffs a last hunk of bread in her mouth, Morrigan douses the fire with a word. Sten and Alistair grab up the last of the packs and pass them out as Finn heads down the road with Ponka.

A few miles lie between them and their lunch camp when a woman appears from around a bend in the road. She runs up to them, panting, distraught, begging for help. "They attacked the wagons!" she cries, "Follow me!" Finn looks at Alistair; they both shake their heads, no. Loghain's men, maybe? Not darkspawn. They follow.

Finn begins to back away when she sees the calm demeanour of the people standing around the ruined wagons. Immediately, she has to scramble frantically to the side as a tree falls behind them. Morrigan begins to trade fire with the woman who baited them here. Finn narrows her eyes and runs toward the lying magic user, circling around to come in from behind, but at the last moment, one of her compatriots shouts a warning. Finn is slammed to the ground, twitching, by the force of the lightning that comes crackling from the woman's hands. Before she can rise, the woman sets her ablaze.

Finn is not moving. Alistair shoves his shield into one of the men attacking Morrigan and beats him down in a fit of pure fury. "Get her!" he shouts at Morrigan. It's not clear if he means for her to get Finn or to kill the mage, but she is resentful of the other woman's ruse and abruptly tired of the battle. Morrigan sneers and throws her hand out toward the woman. First, she steals the woman's magic, revelling in the look of shock that crosses her face as her spell fails entirely. Then she turns her hand over and closes her fist. Morrigan steals her life. The mage drops to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, and Morrigan feels a delicious rush of power and vitality.

Feeling benevolent, she endows Sten with better deflection as he charges up the hill to take on the archers. She watches as Alistair wades through the foot soldiers, beating them aside and cutting them down with efficient, chilling precision. She sends lightning to the archer who would have pinned Alistair in the back, and watches him tumble down the hillside.

Alistair drops to his knees, skidding to a halt next to the lifeless body of Finn. To one side, he can hear Sten yelling in his native language, and other men's death cries. To the other, Morrigan's fire and lightning crackle in the air, accompanied by the horrified screams of the dying. "Come on, come on," he mutters, impatient with himself and how long it is taking to shrug off his pack and rummage through it. He finds the poultices and rips one open with his teeth as he gathers Finn into his arms. He applies one to her face, his impatience becoming a chant, for her, "Come on, come on." The poultice glows, crumbles, and she is still motionless.

Desperate now, he rips open another. As the glow fades, she coughs weakly, and he laughs, half-hysterical with relief. She continues to cough, wetly, and rolls to her side. She spits up an alarming amount of blood. Morrigan hands him a kit, a bored look on her face. He hadn't even realized she was there. He pulls Finn back to him and makes her drink the liquid from a bottle inside. She chokes on it, but swallows at last. After a few moments, she heaves a sigh of relief.

"What happened to the bitch who set me on fire?" she asks, wiping her mouth on her gauntlet.

"I ate her," Morrigan says, smug.

"Right... Very reassuring, Morrigan - not creepy at all," Alistair says.

Leliana runs up with Ponka. "Oh, did I miss all the fun?" she pouts, before she sees Finn and the smile is wiped from her face. "Are you all right?"

Finn sits up, at last. She winces, and touches the back of her head gingerly. "Hmmm... it feels like it _should_ hurt, but it doesn't. Sort of." She stands up and shakes her head to clear the dizziness.

Sten is standing over the body of a blond-haired elf. He pokes it with his boot, and it groans. "This one is still alive," Sten comments.

"Good. We can find out who sent him." Finn's face is grim.

She uses the toe of her boot to push him to his back, and keeps it poised on his chest, holding him down. He shakes his head, coming 'round, and blinks, squinting to make out her face, with the sun behind her. He looks surprised, then resigned. "I rather thought I'd wake up dead," he says.

She smiles wolfishly. "Don't worry, there's still time," she says, cheerfully. "Who sent you?"

"Ah... surly fellow. Loghain?"

Alistair growls as she continues to question the assassin. At last, she steps back, and he sits up. When he offers her his services, she can see that he is sincere. She cannot bring herself to summarily execute a man who is bargaining for his life. Leliana is obviously moved, and offers Zevran her hand. He gives Finn his oath, and she is taken aback.

Then Alistair yells at her. She whips around and levels a dark look at him. He is surprised; she puts her hand on his breastplate and pushes him backward, away from the rest of the group.

"Yes, we're taking him with us."

"Do you really think that's a good idea? He just tried to kill us!"

She steps closer to him, close enough that she has to look up. Her voice is quiet, but hard. "I am _not_ an executioner." She searches his face, and softens. "Duncan took me from my clan because I would have died from the taint, otherwise. Do you remember Daveth? He was about to be hung for pickpocketing, but Duncan saved him and brought him as a recruit. We are the last chance for the hopeless. Duncan taught me that, and everything that has come after has only confirmed it. I stand for _mercy_, because Loghain does _not_. So. Shall we hang all the soldiers who followed Loghain off the field?"

The abrupt change of subject takes him by surprise. "What? No! They were just-" Comprehension dawns. "-following orders," he finishes, all the fire gone out of his voice.

"Exactly. If _you_ want to kill him, go ahead. But _I_ think that we're going to be grateful for another pair of blades, where we're going."

He sighs. "You're right."

"Thank you." She looks up at the sky, at the sun sinking toward the horizon. "This has eaten more of our day than I care to think about. Let's get out of here, away from the possibility of predators, and make camp." She looks at her gauntlet, still covered with her own blood. "And I need a bath. Didn't Bodhan say there was a hot spring around here somewhere? Oh, I could truly use a good soak."

The camp is a fair walk, but the hot spring is right where it should be, and for that, Finn is grateful. Leliana volunteers to hang around with Zevran, citing her interest in the tales of his homeland. With Sten and Ponka guarding the camp, Alistair feels secure enough to be lured away by the promise of hot water.

The spring is large, and surprisingly clear. Finn is grateful for something that is actually comfortable; the warmth and the weightlessness ease her mind as well as her body. At first, Alistair tries to keep his back to her, but she soon tires of speaking to the back of his head, and resorts to splashing him until he finally retaliates. They chase each other around the spring until they are both breathless with laughter. They swear to keep their backs to each other as they climb out and dress.

Alistair tries really hard not to look at the reflection in his shield. He pulls his breeches on as quickly as possible, then turns it around and slings it over his shoulder, letting out a tense puff of breath. He shakes his head and laughs at himself as he buckles on his belt and sword again.

Finn wrings out her hair before she slithers into a loose blue dress she picked up in Lothering. She turns around to see him tugging his boots on. They smile at each other, across the pool, then meet at the trail head. She ambles along, in no hurry to return to camp, and fills a basket with wild edibles.

Half-way between, Alistair catches her hand. "Finn, I want to talk to you about this afternoon."

She turns to look at him and stops short, tongue-tied. He stands in the last amber rays of the setting sun, his shirt crumpled in his hand, completely oblivious to the way the blush is creeping up her face. "Uh... yes?" She is too distracted to notice that he still has her hand.

"It scares me, how trusting you can be. He was sent to kill us, and now he's sitting in our camp."

"I understand... I just... I didn't see any other way."

He nods. "I know."

She tries for a light tone. "Besides, what have I to worry about, truly, when-" She notices their hands and stops, stunned, just for a moment. A flicker of the depths of her fear and uncertainty crosses her face. She swallows, her gaze darting away. "You'll watch my back, won't you?"

"Of course." He looks at his boots, then back at her. Behind the way he sees her, glints the naked steel of a warrior, the hard discipline of knighthood, a glimpse of the deadly she forgets is there when he's laughing. "Will you forgive me, when I do?"

Whatever she was going to say falters and dies on her lips when she sees that swirl of darkness in his eyes. She tries again to speak, but no sound comes out, and she has to start over. "I... I'm beginning to think I could forgive you just about anything," she whispers.

He takes half a step closer, studying her face. Her hand still lies warm within his, and she doesn't move to pull away. He can see her pulse fluttering in her neck. He can smell the crisp herbal scent of the elvish soap she uses in her hair. He waits, knowing, perhaps better than she does, that it must be her who closes that space.

If she tries to speak now, she's going to stutter. She feels like a wild halla, trembling on the edge of bolting, trapped by the intensity of his gaze. He makes no further move, but he is close enough that she can feel the heat radiating from his skin. She is suddenly and keenly _aware_ of him.

She takes a breath to speak, but at that moment, they hear a shriek from the camp. They both turn to see Ponka bolting up the path for all he's worth, a pack clamped tightly in his jaws. Alistair and Finn look at each other, then back down the path as Morrigan fumes past, grumbling about the "flea-bitten cur".

"Ponka!" Finn calls. "Give it back!" She giggles.

Alistair takes a step back, kisses her fingers, then drops her hand. She blushes, disconcerted by what has passed between them. He smiles. "Let's go," he suggests.

She nods. She's afraid of herself, of what is happening, of what _might_ happen. For now, though, she is grateful for his presence, reassured by the warmth and strength of him. She refuses to contemplate the future. She begins to feel a flutter of simple happiness, and this, in itself, is enough to keep her close to him.

On the way back to camp, she impulsively slips her hand back into his. He doesn't look at her - he's afraid she might bolt, skittish as she is - but he smiles.

_Right_, he thinks. _That's a good sign, isn't it? I'll take that as a good sign._


	6. Interlude: Dream of the Archer

_"Watch your head," Tamlen murmurs, pulling her through a particularly dense copse of bracken and overhanging tree limbs._

"Where are we going? This path even mice would fear to tread," Finnariel protests.

She can hear his quiet laugh in the darkness ahead. "We're nearly there. Watch your feet! Four steps, straight up. Here, put your hands on my shoulders." She follows him, testing each step with her toe. When he stops, she rests her head in the hollow between his shoulder blades and presses herself to his back. She can hear his heart beat. He pulls one of her hands over his shoulder and kisses her palm.

"Just a little farther, lethallan," he whispers. Keeping her hand in his, he leads her forward. She knows when they leave the trees by the sudden wind on her face. She can hear the sound of a babbling rill cascading over stones. "Give me your boots."

"What?"

He laughs. "You'll understand in a moment, I promise." Obediently, she lifts her feet and lets him tug them off, her hands braced on his shoulders for balance. Soft grass tickles her feet. He fumbles at the sides of her skirt, and she jumps. He laughs again. She can feel the breeze on her bare legs. He leaves her hands entirely, and she reaches out, suddenly frightened. "Tamlen?"

"Down here. I'm just taking off my boots." His fingers brush her ankle.

He leads her forward again, across wet stones, then into the water. The water rises with every step. He stops her when it's just over her knee. He hooks her ankle with his own and pulls her foot forward until it rests upon a high step. "Up," he says, "Five steps." He grabs her other hand and she rises out of the water. She climbs the steps and feels fitted stone beneath her feet. He turns her by the shoulders, then she feels him behind her, his fingers in the knot at the back of her head.

His hands drop to caress her shoulders as the blindfold falls away. "Open your eyes, lethallan," he whispers in her ear. She shivers, half turning toward him, and he laughs. "Look."

Finnariel opens her eyes and gasps. The beauty spread out before her takes her breath away. They stand upon the remains of an ancient, white stone archway. A small waterfall burbles behind them, the water flowing around the base of the stones, reaching westward. The forest sweeps out to either side, as though to embrace the setting sun, the fading light painting the world in shades of orange, fuchsia, orchid and indigo. The brightest of the stars have begun to light the vault of the sky above them.

Tamlen presses against her back, wrapping his arms around her waist, and she leans her head back on his shoulder. "Oh," she breathes, "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Thank you. How did you find this place?"

"Following rabbits." She can hear the smile in his voice. They stand there in silence for long moments, watching the sun go down and the stars come out. As the last of the indigo descends on the horizon, he speaks again. "I spoke to Ashalle and the Keeper."

Her heartbeat speeds. "And?"

He laughs under his breath. "What do you think?" he murmurs, pressing his lips to the soft spot beneath her ear. She shivers and tilts her head to the side. His fingers twine with hers as his free _hand slides up her side and across her shoulder._

She turns, then, and kisses him ardently. He wraps his arms around her, tangling his hand in her hair. At last, she turns her face aside, gasping, and lays her head upon his shoulder. She shakes with the overwhelming emotion as he enfolds her more gently in his arms. "So, you approve."

She laughs. "How long do I have to wait?"

"We, lethallan. And, a phase," he replies, and she can feel his smile against her cheek.

"So long?"

"I gather that Ashalle told the Keeper there was no reason for us to wait out a full cycle. She argued that one month more or less will make no difference to us."

"That's not what she said," Finnariel says, a knowing smile upon her lips.

"No." He laughs again. "I heard Ashalle yelled at her and said we weren't a couple of 'bumbling blushers'." He considers for a moment. "Well... I'm not."

She giggles. "You've known longer than I have, Tamlen."

"Yes, my beautiful Finnariel, but I could see that you have felt it just as long as I have." This time, when he kisses her, it is a surrender. "Caught you," he whispers against her lips.

Finn sits bolt upright on her bedroll, a strangled cry of anguish escaping her lips. "No," she whispers brokenly, "I was just there, I was just there." She drops her outstretched arm; there is nothing there that she can reach, not any more. She pulls her knees up, puts her head down, and shakes with silent tears.

_"You shem are like vermin,"_ he had said, that last day. This _is_ a betrayal. He would be so angry with her. Not for surviving, not for joining, not for fighting alongside them to end the Blight that threatens everything they ever knew. No. For all of this, he would be proud.

But Alistair... Would Tamlen forgive her, if he knew of all the darkness and despair she has known since she lost him? Would he forgive her, if he could see how these people, this one shem, had saved her life so many times over?

Ponka raises his head. His Girl is sad. She is sad a lot of the time. She needs love. That's good. A Good Dog can give love. He pushes his head under her arms, and she falls sideways, wrapping her arms around his neck. She whispers her sadness into his back, and he can't really understand what she says until he hears that one name that doesn't match any of the others: "Tamlen". Then he knows. She is sad about her mate again.

He could smell it on her, even though he was sick, he could smell two elves on her when she first came to Ostagar. He listened to her, and learned that the male scent was her mate, and that he was dead. She is always sad about it. He can see that everyone worries about her. He wants to Do Good and help his Girl. He can tell that she wants to mate with Alistair, and that Alistair wants to mate with her. He does not understand why they do not, because it makes them both sad that they don't. People mating is too complicated.

He didn't think people mated for life. Maybe some of them do. Maybe his Girl did. But it is no good to be sad over a lost mate, not forever. How can he be a Good Dog and help her? He looks at Alistair, sitting by the fire, watching them. He can tell that Alistair wants to help, too. He whines, and moves his eyes between Alistair and his Girl, hoping that he will be understood. At last, Alistair comes over, and touches his Girl's shoulder. She flinches away, but Ponka pushes her over.

She's like a puppy, almost. Sometimes you have to push them where they need to go. Alistair pets her fur a little, and Ponka gives her another push. Alistair puts his arm around her, and she lets him. This is Good, he decides. He scoots over more, and his Girl has to move over too, so now she is between them, and he can feel Alistair's arm on his back. Then an Amazing Thing happens, and his Girl lets Alistair hug her. When she stops hugging Ponka and turns to Alistair, Ponka knows he has done a Good Thing, and he is happy.

Maybe they will mate and have puppies. That would be a Good Thing, too. He likes puppies.


	7. Scars Flown Proud

Alistair drags another heavy piece of wood toward the pyre. His legs ache with fatigue, his back screams for rest, his shoulders and arms went numb long ago. The burned, jagged end scores a path through the dirty snow and carves a deep black line into the earth beneath. His face is smudged with dirt and charcoal, a grim mask over shock-numb eyes. Sten lifts the other end as Alistair heaves it onto the stack. It's still not big enough. Wearily, he trudges off, back to the shattered forest.

Finn and Leliana stagger up with bundles of sticks. Zevran follows behind with a heavy load of small branches on his back. Morrigan sits upon a fallen piece of stone, away from the silent activity, reading a book. Of all of them, she is the only one not in desperate need of a bath, not hollow-eyed with grief, not aching with exhaustion. The darkened sky is pregnant with the threat of endless blizzard, but the friends toil on, despite the frigid wind that cuts at their dirty faces and torn hands.

A brilliant shaft of sunlight pierces the grey as the sun sinks below the level of the clouds, and the scene is bathed in late-autumn gold. After hours of work, at last, the pyre is ready to receive the body. Alistair, insistent from the start that he be the only one to touch it, carries his burden for the last time. After all the crushingly heavy wood he brought here, the remains seem curiously ephemeral.

As he stands back, Morrigan rises. She straightens her arms toward the pyre, and as her fingers splay, the tinder beneath bursts into hot, white flame, and the entire thing goes up. Alistair stands there, numbly staring, while Sten solemnly speaks verse in his native tongue.

Finn slips herself under Alistair's arm and wraps her own around his waist. At first, he doesn't seem to notice her. But then, gradually, he begins to stir, like wakening stone, until suddenly he crumples toward her, clutching her waist.

She straightens and throws her arms around his neck, and they cry upon each others' shoulders, silent tears for the fallen king.

Leliana's voice rises above the roar of the flame, a lament in another language spiralling upward with the ashes. Zevran stands respectfully to the side, head bowed. Morrigan shrugs, her task done, and returns to the rock, and her book.

The pyre burns for hours.

Eventually, they retreat to their camp, hastily erected this morning in the lee of a cliff, well outside of Ostagar. Neither of the Wardens could bear the thought of trying to camp amongst the ruins of all that had been lost on that terrible night.

Alistair and Finn sit by the camp fire, side by side, backs against the stone. For once, Alistair's face mirrors her familiar time-unwinding gaze. No one speaks. By some silent accord, Leliana and Zevran take over the cooking while Sten and Morrigan keep watch. At last, unable to stand it any more, Ponka sits next to Finn and puts his head in her lap. His simple presence is enough to stir her, and she blinks.

She puts her hands to her face and stops at the last second, seeing them as though for the first time. They are filthy, covered in soot, tree sap, and dirt. Alistair's look much the same. She puts her hand in his and rises. "Come."

He looks up, tumbling down the long months back into the now. She remembers where the waterfall fell. The water is frigid in the snow-ready air; they hurry back to camp, both convinced they will begin to grow icicles from their eyelashes at any moment.  
They huddle together beside the fire, and Finn drags her pack over. "Remember when... just after we left Flemeth's hut... and we talked about...?" She waves a hand in the direction of Ostagar. Alistair nods. "You said, you just wished you could have had something of his. So, I... Here." She unties a clanking bundle from her pack and lays the it in his lap.

Duncan's sword and dagger lie within. Alistair grimaces and squeezes his eyes shut. He turns his face aside, pushing his finger and thumb against his eyes. Finn puts her hand on his arm and leans against his shoulder. He clears his throat and looks back at her. "You should take the dagger," he says, his voice hoarse and quiet. He puts his arm around her and kisses her temple. "Thank you," he whispers. "I'm not used to people listening to me."

They sit there watching the fire, heads bent together, clutching the tools of the man who made them family. Ponka lies wrapped around Finn's hip, his head resting on her feet. The warmth and their complete exhaustion conspire, and they fall asleep within minutes.

Zevran pulls his rack of roasting fish away from the fire and inspects them critically. "Tch," he mutters, readjusting them. Leliana leans over and looks at them, then hands him a head of garlic. "Ah!" he says, "Just what I needed. You, my dear, are indispensable." She giggles and hands him a few sprigs of rosemary as well. He grins.

Morrigan rolls her eyes and fetches a loaf of bread out of her pack. Breaking off a hunk, she offers the rest to Sten. They pass it around the fire, then put the remainder back on the scrap of leather it was wrapped in. After a time, the bread is joined by two roasted fish; two handfuls of dried berries; some hard, white goat's cheese; and a couple of potatoes.

At the end of second watch, Zevran stretches and yawns, and Leliana gently nudges Alistair's shoulder. She places the cooled bundle in his lap. "It's third watch. I'm going to sleep." She smiles as he rubs his eyes blearily. Finn stirs at his side.

"Fish?"

Leliana retreats; she and Zevran disappear into their tents.

The order of this night becomes the pattern, then the routine, then the habit, during the weeks it takes them to get to Redcliffe. On the last night, as they sit third watch, Alistair sits next to her, idly peeling the bark off of a stick. At last, he speaks. "Finn... Er... Listen. There's something I need to tell you... Something I probably should have told you earlier..." Finn listens.

Cailan, his brother. So many things begin to make sense. "I think I understand," she says. He apologizes again and again. No, not the heir, no, we won't even consider it. "Duncan said we leave that behind," she reminds him. "No titles, no other oaths. We're Wardens, now, and there's no going back on that, no retiring, no changing jobs. We'll brace for the flood when the waters rise, all right? First, we see Eamon."

"This doesn't change the way you see me?"

"I see you, Alistair: soldier, Grey Warden, survivor of Ostagar. Who you might have been as a political pawn was eclipsed by the vow we took at the Joining. The fact of your bloodline does not make the man I have come to know a lie."

He smiles, that lop-sided, don't-dare-to-believe grin that he can sometimes use as a defence. She bumps her shoulder playfully against his, and he puts his arm around her waist. Ponka rolls over and kicks in his sleep. The fire pops and crackles. They can hear the sleeping breath of their companions in the stillness of the hours before dawn.

At last, unable to contain himself, Alistair asks a question that has been plaguing him since they first met at Ostagar. "Finn... Why won't you let me use your elvish name? Do I pronounce it wrong?"

She doesn't reply, at first. She picks up a stick and pokes at the fire, stares off into the night. At last, she says, "No. It's not that."

She rises and fetches her pack. Sitting down again next to him, she pulls out a battered, leather-bound book. She looks at the cover for a long while, her eyes gone far away. Alistair studies the intricate patterns inscribed on its surface. She shakes herself, and looks at him. "I've never shared this with anyone," she says, nervousness obvious in her tone. He regards her seriously.

"You don't have to, you know."

She nods. "No, I know. But it's fair, and you should know." She swallows. She opens the book and flips through the pages. He sees drawings of the people she knew and the places she had been, tattoo designs and portraits of family, pressed plants and botanical drawings, notes, poetry, stories. Through it all, drawings and sketches of one man appear again and again, different moments of him caught smiling, dreaming, restless, laughing, mischievous, concentrating.

The torrent of creativity cuts off abruptly, two-thirds of the way through the book. On the last marked page, two locks of hair are twisted together in one short plait, one butter yellow, the other chestnut brown. It weaves between hasty, excited scribblings of the night upon the archway, an unfinished sketch of the scene and the stones they had stood upon, her hopes and plans for a future that would never be.

"Tamlen-" she starts, but she chokes on his name. She squeezes her eyes shut. "The mirror," she says, her voice a harsh whisper. Haltingly, she tells him of how, exactly, she came to be a Grey Warden.

When she finally stumbles to a halt, Alistair hugs her. "Your nightmares," he murmurs. She nods, wiping the tears from her face with the corner of her cloak. She lets him hold her for a moment; what would it matter, now, at the edge of world's end? Surely she deserves to find some solace... doesn't she? "Is this what you were talking about, to those kids, in the camp? You were 'bonded', you said. To him? Is that like a marriage?"

"Yes, it is. But... it's more than that, as well. It's very serious, an oath that cannot be abandoned, even if one of you dies. You only bond once." She swallows again. "Never twice," she whispers.

"So... You... You're married?"

"Three more days, and..." She closes her eyes. "...but the mirror stole him away from me." She takes several deep breaths, then looks at him, her gaze direct. "Much like you, I am one caught between. I am, but I never actually took the oath, so... I am not." She turns aside again, her gaze dropping to the book. She turns the page, showing two blank pages. "This, right here, this is why you call me 'Finn'." She smooths her hands over the creamy paper. "This is where 'Finnariel' died: in front of a tainted mirror, in the dark of a Tevinter ruin, next to the man who was supposed to become her husband."

Gently, she closes the book and lets it fall back into her pack. Finn looks at him then, un-shed tears glittering in her eyes. "I could not be here, now, if she had survived." He holds his arm out, and she slips under it, resting her head against his shoulder. He wraps his arm, and half his cloak, around her, then kisses the top of her head.

After a time, he sighs. "It is a night for secrets."

"I'm _tired_ of secrets, and all the pain they carry."

He nods. "Then how about this: we'll agree that, between us, there won't be any more secrets." He waves a hand through the air, as though to erase chalk from a wall. "We'll tell each other everything."

"Everything?"

"Er... Well, that _is_ the point, yeah."

At last, she nods. "All right. Everything," she says, quietly. She sits up and regards him seriously. The light of dawn creeps across the sky, and she glances up at it. "The sun rises. Third watch is over," she says. She stands.

"Finn-" he starts, but she cuts him off with a gentle finger laid against his lips. She leans down, pressing her cheek to his, and whispers in his ear.

"The heart is a cruel master. One step at a time," she breathes. She leans back. "We reach _your_ homeland today; now is my turn to meet your people." She looks around the camp. "Time is running faster than we can keep up." She turns away and kneels to roll up her bed.

Alistair stands, stretching his shoulders. Ponka is already on his feet. They look at each other. Ponka looks at Finn, then back at Alistair. He wags his tail and looks at Finn again. Alistair leans down and scratches Ponka's head. "Believe me, I'm working on it," he says.

"So am I," Finn responds. When she turns around, she cannot, for the life of her, figure out what is so funny.


	8. Some With Arrows, Some With traps

None of them are prepared for the situation at Redcliffe. Finn looks around and sees the same faces: her clan, Ostagar, Lothering, Zathrien's clan, and now here. Every face bears the same expression of resignation, every child's eyes dull with horror. Everywhere she goes, the same eyes. The villagers tell of fallen kinsmen not properly buried returning to terrorize the very town they defended the night before. A stab of fear pierces her heart; this is magic of the darkest kind.

She looks at Alistair, listens to him talking with Teagan, feels the stones piling again on their backs, and she sees that unconscious shrug of his shoulders that tells her he's already set his mind to the task. Finn shivers. He helped her save her people; she will help him save his. There is much to do before nightfall.

Alistair watches in amazement as Finn's tactical direction and silver tongue muster the town to a fair fighting chance. A surly dwarf, a pickled blacksmith, a salty barkeep, even a spy of Loghain's - none are able to resist her quiet grace. Her plan is so sound that it clicks along like a clockwork horse, and the sun rises on celebration, for they all survive the night, to a one.

The trip up to the castle is not so easy. Finn nearly loses her calm when she speaks too long with the mage in the basement. The main hall is no better. She is frozen in horror at the sight of brave Teagan stultified to an imbecilic puppet. _(how do i bargain with a demon for the life of an innocent child)_ Eventually the not-child runs away, and the room is left in shocked silence.

Once the subject is broached, it is very difficult to dissuade Isolde from offering herself up as a sacrifice; Leliana and Finn take her aside to try and explain that suicide is a _bad idea_. Alistair and Teagan grimly discuss the probability of the boy's soon and terrible fate. It is Morrigan who asks the pertinent question that no one else had even considered. She stands at the back of the room, inspecting her nails. She doesn't raise her voice, but what she says cuts through the conversations better than if she had shouted. "Not that I relish the idea of it, but has anyone considered asking the caged ones? Surely their answer will differ from that of this blood mage." She waves a flippant hand vaguely northward.

Finn can't get out of the castle fast enough. _(children are precious, children are precious)_ She is driven, single-minded. An avenging fury descends upon the Circle Tower, and her name is Finn.

And Finn. Hates. The Fade.

She knows where she is, and she isn't fooled for an _instant_. She saw Cailan's body, she carries Duncan's _dagger_. The demon can not see into her Dalish heart the way it did with the others, her human friends, or it would have given her a _very_ different dream. This place: her torment, her lack of sleep, her reliving the day she lost Tamlen, her forbidden heart, all the terrible things it puts into her mind while she innocently tries to steal a bit of rest. She gives everything she has, every day, until she has nothing left, and then she gives more. And now, it tries to steal her conscious life, as well.

Finn leaves nothing but burning wreckage in her wake.

Coming to on the floor does nothing to improve Finn's mood. The abomination at the top of the tower stands no chance against her. Her face is hard as stone as she stares down the loud-mouthed Templar Cullen, and at last it is decided that perhaps slaughtering a tower full of innocent survivors is a bad idea.

"First Enchanter... If I might have a word? In Redcliffe, there is a child..." The words of assent barely leave Irving's lips; Finn cannot be kept inside the tower another moment. They bolt back to Redcliffe, days over land at break-neck pace.

"'Twas my suggestion, so I will go in and look for him," Morrigan says with uncharacteristic magnanimity.

Finn begins pacing after half an hour. At the close of the second hour, Leliana presses a cup of tea into her hand. Finn drinks it, but does not taste it, and does not pause in her endless circling. At last, Alistair can stand it no more, and he rises to speak, but a terrifyingly high-pitched scream rips the air, making everyone's hair stand on end. It cuts off abruptly, leaving everyone's ears ringing. Then follows the soft sound of a woman's sobs.

Finn is the first one out the door, Alistair hot on her heels. She skids to a stop when she comes around the corner into the main hall and sees Isolde hunched over the body of Connor and Morrigan sitting up, holding her head. Then, the tiniest of voices: "M... Mother?"

It is not until Connor moves that Finn lets out the breath she's been holding. There are tears in every eye as the boy sits up and smiles. Isolde crushes the boy to her breast. Finn smiles brilliantly at Morrigan. "You did it!" she blurts.

Morrigan brushes an invisible speck off of her shoulder. "Of course I did. And, you're welcome. I am not _entirely_ without heart."

The arl's illness presents a completely different problem. Finn obtains a sample of the poison from the basement-mage's affects, but she cannot decipher its compound. She scours his office for clues as to how it may have been administered, but comes up with nothing. Except, that is, for a broken amulet. She stares at the fragile, inexpertly mended trinket.

_("...it shattered. stupid, stupid thing to do...")_

After a few moments of deliberation, Finn pockets it.

When she looks up, Zevran is leaning against the doorway, watching her. Her face colours in embarrassment, and he smiles.

"How long have you been standing there?"

He chuckles under his breath. "Long enough to know that I was never standing here at all, dear Warden. But this is not why I have come. I am told that you have been investigating this poison that has been used on your potential ally. I thought, perhaps, my expertise might be helpful to you."

Finn studies him critically. Zevran does his level best to look innocent and non-threatening, but finds it hard not to smirk at the irony. Abruptly, Finn holds out the vial. Zevran raises his eyebrows in surprise, but takes it from her. His fingertips rest just a little too long against Finn's, and she snatches her hand away. She scowls and he grins, enjoying baiting her once again.

Zevran produces a miniature alchemy kit from his pack, and begins testing the poison. Finn starts pacing again. At last, Zevran looks up, swirling the contents of a small vial in his hand. "My dear Warden, your relentless pacing does little good for your patience nor my concentration. Since I would-" he abruptly stops his motion as the contents of the beaker suddenly sputter and puff a curl of smoke. He looks at it with a mixture of surprise and disappointment. "Tch. Finished before I even begin," he mutters. "On second thought, it would seem that you must seek other, less natural means; there is magic attached to this poison, so no ordinary means will provide a reliable antidote."

Finn sighs. "There's nothing for it, then. Tomorrow, we set out for Denerim."

Finn takes her leave of Isolde, Teagan, and Connor and heads back to camp. After all their time on the road, real beds make her restless, and she feels relieved at the familiarity. As she approaches the ring of firelight and the habitual configuration of tents, she remembers how her clan would place their aravels in the same places, put their fire in the same location, no matter where they set stakes.

She stops there, on the edge, and watches her companions, her rag-tag clan of misfits. Morrigan throws a winsome look at Sten. Sten snorts and looks away. Morrigan sulks, but Sten turns his eyes toward her back when she walks away. Zevran and Leliana crouch by the fire, heads bent together and the stew-pot between them. Leliana listens intently as he shows her a handful of herbs, his hands gesturing gracefully to outline the shapes of leaves in the air. Wynne reclines against a log, staring at the sky. Ponka lies on his back next to the fire, legs up in the air, completely undignified in sleep.

Alistair comes up behind her, purposely making noise a few paces away so as not to startle her. He touches her elbow, and she turns. "I spoke to Bodhan this afternoon; he marked our next camp-site on the map," he murmurs. She nods. "You okay?"

Finn smiles. "Yeah," she says, softly. "I have something for you, actually." She opens her pouch and pulls her hand out, curled to conceal its contents. She drops it into Alistair's out-stretched hand.

At first he doesn't understand. But then he turns it over and sees the marks of the mending. "I- You- Is this what I think it is?" She nods. "But how- where did you find it?"

"I came across it while I was scouring the arl's office for clues about the poison."

His face crumples as he looks at the necklace, and for just a moment, Finn can see that little boy in his eyes. It moves her to witness these moments of true vulnerability, and that it is her he shares it with. She puts her fingers to her lips, remembering. When he looks up, she realizes just how close they are standing, and her breath catches. "I thought I'd lost it forever, to my own stupidity."

"You were just a child, Alistair. A child's pain and fury can shake mountains to the ground. It's not stupid... you felt abandoned. I... I'm an orphan, too." She tugs her necklace out from under her tunic and holds it in her palm. "This was my mother's necklace. If Ashalle had given it to me when I was a child, I probably would have done much the same. I understand."

Alistair studies the carved wooden animals. "Thank you," he whispers. When he looks at her then, she finds that she can't look away. Her heart picks up, and she remembers that sunset by the hot spring, that moment when she froze, torn with conflicting desires. It surprises her just as much as it does him when she finds herself reaching up to lay a hand against his cheek. His face has changed, the vulnerability now guarded, almost serious again, and it hurts her heart that he has come to need that guard against her.

"I'd never hurt you, Alistair," she says, hoping that this will erase some of the pain from his eyes. But she knows, she already has, and it eats at her.

He takes that half-step closer, and runs his finger across her forehead, down her temple, across her cheekbone, tracing the lines of her tattoo. She closes her eyes a moment, a slow blink. Her hand slips down to rest against his shoulder, and he brushes the backs of his fingers against her cheek. "Nor I, you."

A fat tear slips out of the corner of her eye when she squeezes them shut and turns her face aside. _(is this how it is for me, love creeping up from behind, wearing the face of friendship, when did this happen, how did this happen)_

He sees her turning away again, and his heart sinks. For a moment there, it almost seemed... but, no. She said it herself, elves only bond once, and she feels that she is bonded, though he may be long gone from her, though the oath was never spoken. He wonders who is tormented more by this... whatever it is, between them.

She takes a breath to speak, but he speaks first, trying to forestall more heart-breaking explanations. Moving away again, he says, "Let's get back to the camp; there are a lot of things we should see to before morning."

She lets her hand drop, her face turning red; she swallows her words and nods, clears her throat. "Right. Uh, I'll go and... uh, I'll just go look for some... watercress," she finishes lamely, and dashes off into the woods.

Finn slinks back to camp some time later, her hands full of herbs - watercress among them. Her face is smeared with dirty fingerprints and there are leaves in her hair. Wordlessly, she deposits the herbs in a tidy stack next to a surprised Leliana. Then she trudges back to the small pond nearby to wash up. Leliana levels a sceptical scowl at Alistair, and he spreads his hands and shrugs.

Finn and Alistair sit their usual watch in the silent hours before dawn. Alistair wanders the camp restlessly. Inwardly, he berates himself for always trying to reach for things that are beyond his station, beyond his means, clearly beyond his grasp, not meant for him. _(stupid, stupid, someone else's wife, for andraste's sake, didn't she already say)_

Finn sits by the fire and watches him, wanting to reach out, but too intimidated by his agitation. She knows that this is about what lies between them; she can tell by the stab of pain writ on his face the one time he glanced at her.

Finn examines her motives over the last month, since she encountered his people, the lengths she has gone to, is still going to, to help him and his clan. _(leliana, morrigan, sten, wynne, i would help them but i wouldn't move the sky, but i did move the sky, i went to the fade and slaughtered demons to bring back a mage to heal the child of his adoptive father, across the land to find the ashes of a lost prophet of a god i don't even believe in to try to heal that same man, and clearly i walk to the end of the earth for him, but only for him)_

At last, she can bear it no more; she must speak with him. She stands up, and as he strides past the fire again, she catches his hand. "Alistair," she whispers.

He wheels, still moving too quickly, and they find themselves, in an instant, pressed against that invisible half-step barrier again. He looks down at her, his heart beating too quickly. His thoughts are so tangled with her, still grappling with his desire and her denial, with his need and her loyalties. He tries and tries, every day, to reconcile what she says with the expression on her face when she looks at him.

His eyes are wild and a little dangerous when he stops in front of her, and Finn is stunned to silence. "What do you need?" The flatness of his voice nearly breaks her heart.

_(what do i need, what do i need, what do i need)_

And in that one heart beat, a profound, inescapable moment of clarity:

"Alistair," she says, answering herself, and him, in an agonized half-whisper.

She holds his gaze as she deliberately crosses that invisible line. Her breasts brush against his shirt, and she draws a shaking breath. Her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth as she looks up at him. It's okay; she doesn't trust herself to speak any more on this subject.

Tentatively, she raises a hand and places it upon his chest, over his heart. He remains impassive, still watching her, so she turns her hand over in his, and presses his palm to her cheek. She squeezes her eyes shut, tears falling over his fingers, afraid she's only understood too late.

Alistair grimaces as all the pain within him wells and bursts; slowly, he puts his other arm around her shoulders, but he doesn't even dare to believe until she sags against him in relief. She presses her ear to his chest, listening to his heart beat, taking comfort from the peace that this last, fallen barrier has suddenly bestowed upon her wrung-out soul.

He turns his face and kisses her forehead. Impulsively, Finn stretches up on her toes and closes the distance completely; she presses herself against him tightly, and turns her lips to his. All the chaos in Alistair's head evaporates as she yields to him completely, leaving nothing but one, simple truth behind.

This time, when she kisses him, it is a surrender.


	9. The High Road

Most of a week's push puts them a few miles outside of Denerim at the close of a miserably humid day. Finn and Alistair stand at the top of a ridge, looking out across the plain to the city. Finn peels a stray hair off of her face and mashes it back into her ponytail. Everyone is sweaty and gritty, cranky and footsore from the stony ground they crossed over the last day and a half. But here at the edge of a tree-lined ridge, a cooler breeze blows toward them, and Finn raises her face to the sky in relief.

"Ah, Denerim. I would recognize that stench anywhere," says Zevran, coming up beside them.

Leliana appears on the other side of Zevran. "Oooh, I wonder what treasures we might find at the market. Or what adventures I shall come across tonight," she says, anticipation and excitement in her voice.

"We have to find a way down from the ridge, first," Alistair comments, taking a step back. "There's only one path down within five miles of here. If we want to make it to camp tonight, this is it."

They all go to the cliff and look down.

Their only real option: a trail that a goat might think twice about, hugging the wall, only one or two across most of the way down.

Finn snorts. "Whoever made a map with _this_ marked as a 'road' must have eaten the wrong moss."

Half-way down the cliff, with no warning of any kind, a section of ground simply gives way.

For just one heartbeat, Finn hangs there, nearly horizontal in the air, the sky above and the yawning abyss of the hundreds of feet below her. She scrabbles desperately at the wall and manages to grab a jutting rock.

_A woman's scream._

Her stomach smashes against the broken side of the cliff, knocking the wind from her.

Boots skid against the stone above.

_"Alistair! Take my hand!" Leliana shouts._

Her wrists and shoulders pop, and suddenly ache sharply. The ground crumbles under her questing boots, giving her no purchase.

_"Sten! Catch!" Zevran shouts._

"Oh, Andraste, Morrigan! Wynne, help! It's too heavy!"

"Maker! Finn!" Alistair yells.

She tries to master her breathing and stretches her legs out to the sides, looking for something to rest her toes on, but it's just more crumbling dirt. She gags on a shower of pebbles and dust that pour down over her face.

_"Done," Sten says._

"Ready," Zevran replies.

"Ready," Alistair echoes.

"Go," Sten commands.

She shakes her head, trying to dislodge the dirt from her blinded eyes. She feels the rock under her hands shift, and moans with horror.

_"Quickly!" Morrigan snaps._

The rock shifts again, and she tries to adjust her grip, but it begins to pull toward her. The bottom drops out of her stomach.

She shrieks as the rock pulls loose from the wall entirely. A pair of arms encircle her waist at the last moment, and she hears the rock tumble down the cliff to the ground far below. She moans as they spin crazily in mid-air.

"I won't let you fall."

She hears the creak of rope and they drop a few inches.

_"Pull!" Zevran shouts._

"One of us has to live."

"Riiight. Let's be _morbid_."

The rope jerks again, and they spin around. Finn whimpers.

"Oh, gods..."

"I've got you."

When Alistair and Finn are hauled up to ground level, she stands next to the cliff wall with her back to the party, covering her face with her hands. Alistair touches her shoulder, and she shivers, turning toward him. Zevran hands her a wet cloth and moves away. She can hear them talking behind her, but the buzzing in her ears drowns out any sense.

She wipes her face and clears the dirt out of her eyes. Alistair pulls her into his arms and she rests her head against his chest. After a few moments, she simply turns and walks down the path. For nearly two hours, she neither stops nor speaks. The sun sets as they finally draw close to the camp, leaving it in deep shadow when they enter.

While the others gather by the fire to lay down their packs and discuss their near-fatal adventure, Finn slips away up the stony path to the hot spring. She is there so long, Alistair wanders up there to see what is keeping her.

She sits on the edge of the pool, hugging her knees. Her wet hair hangs heavily over the back of her cloak. Her armour and clothes lie in a tidy pile atop a convenient fallen tree nearby. He takes off his boots and rolls up his pants before sitting next to her and dangling his feet into the water.

"Alistair?" she whispers, her voice half squeak.

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

He puts his arm around her waist. "Of course," he murmurs, "Anything for a kiss."

He is rewarded with a snort and a half-smile, and her eyes grow less remote. "Mercenary," she teases. She kisses him shyly, the feel of her lips lingering warmly upon his. Her smile fades as she grows more serious. "I thought I was going to _die_." she says, a shiver going up her spine. "When that rock gave way..."

He kisses her temple, pulling her closer. "I wasn't going to let that happen."

After a time, she says, "I need to talk to you, actually..." Her voice drops to a whisper at the end.

Alistair's heart clenches. They haven't spoken of that last night in Redcliffe, and there hasn't been a chance to even touch on it, let alone act on it, with as hard as they pushed to get here. "Well... the camp's just about empty and we're alone; it's as good of a time as we're likely to get. What's on your mind?"

"Empty?"

"Well, Ponka is happily eating half of Bodhan's food store, but everyone else went into Denerim to find real beds. It's just us."

She nods, and takes a few deep breaths before speaking. "Among my people, it is taught that there is only one great love in your life, only one that is true, amongst all those that will be false, no matter how it feels at first blush." Alistair takes a deep breath. He is afraid he knows where she is going with this, and he closes his eyes. "And I have come to realize, they were right."

Alistair rubs his forehead. _(this again, of course, of course, wishful thinking, isn't it always)_ "Hm. I see."

She feels his arm become so much dead weight, and looks up to see him pinching the bridge of his nose. "No, I don't think you do," she murmurs. She puts her hand to his cheek, and he looks at her. "Alistair, I never go back on my word." She sees that old pain swirling in his eyes again. He doubts her. She sighs. _(this again, of course, of course, i deserve this, why would he trust)_

Quickly, she pulls herself up to her knees and straddles his waist, before he can stop her. He looks up at her in surprise, frozen by the fact that he has a naked woman in his lap.

"I never go back on my word," she repeats. She counts her points on her fingers, holding each one up in turn: "I never made any oaths to anyone, before I came to the Wardens. I said, a long time ago, that my home is with you, that we are family now because of our Order. I told you, I would only bond once." She holds up her fourth finger and looks at it, then looks at him. She puts her hand down and leans toward him, steadying herself on his shoulders. "Last phase, you turned to me, and you asked me a very simple question, yet I had never thought about it before, twisted up as I was inside. Do you remember?"

He studies her face, trying to recall what, exactly, was said that night. All he can remember is pacing, and then she caught his hand, and then that shining moment when she was in his arms, finally his, and she kissed him, _she_ kissed _him_. He frowns and shakes his head, no.

"You asked me, 'What do you need'." She watches him, waiting for him to remember. "You were hard as stone," she murmurs, her heart echoing with the hurt that moment had caused them both.

"You didn't say anything," he says slowly, "We just... well, you kissed me."

She nods. "But I _did_ say something. In fact, I answered your question. _Then_ I kissed you."

He frowns, leaning back, and his brow furrows. Then, in an instant, his face changes to complete surprise. She smiles. "You said my name," he whispers.

She wraps her arms around his neck. "I did. And that is what I am talking about."

He stares at her, uncomprehending, and her smile widens. "The Wardens are a people apart. We hold no titles; we are of all lands, and none. Without the Blight, my life would only be reaching its middle years when Connor was becoming a grandparent; but we have been made equal. Can you not see how free that makes us?"

He shakes his head, still not understanding. "What are you saying?"

She sighs. "I nearly _died_ today. Had I been on that ridge _alone_..." She shudders. "You risked your life to save me. On the way to camp, I thought about how we do that every day, running into battle and putting ourselves in front of people who need to be protected. I've been thinking about it all phase, actually.

"I would like to say I do it because I am a Warden, and it's my duty, but that's not the only reason. At any moment, one of us could simply _end_, without warning, without a thought." She pinches her fingers together as though snuffing a candle. "I cannot continue to cling to the rules of a people who are no longer truly mine."

He wraps his arms around her hips, sitting up a bit. "So, what now?"

She takes a deep breath. "So... among my people, among your people, we couldn't bond. Marry. Whatever you want to call it. But we are not those we have come from any longer, we are _our own_ people, we are different." She laughs softly. "Where else in all of Ferelden would it ever be okay for what is here, now, between us?"

He smiles, and she runs her fingers through his hair. "Alistair, I- I cared for him, I did, so, so very much." She closes her eyes for a moment. "But it couldn't have been right, could it, because I-" She bites her lip, suddenly uncertain.

He pulls her closer, his face becoming serious. "Because?" he prompts.

She slowly leans forward to rest her forehead against his. "I... we don't speak of it, not until-" and then, almost to herself, "...but I can't _do_ that any more, so-" She takes another breath, beginning to tremble, and closes her eyes. "I do all these things, every day, and I'd go to the ends of the earth, because- because I love you, Alistair," she whispers.

And then he is kissing her, and his face is in her hands, and he is crushing her to his chest, and she is wrapping her legs around his waist, and she whimpers, overwhelmed with relief and passion. They break away, after a time, and she lays her head upon his shoulder, breathless. She can hear the racing of his heart, and it makes her smile.

He holds her, trying to master his own breathing and... other things he's glad she doesn't seem to have noticed. He pulls a tendril of her hair over her shoulder so he can reach her neck, and kisses her in the hollow beneath her ear.

She moves against him, reflexively, and they both gasp. He pulls her hips slightly to the side, hoping it will clear his head a bit. "Finn, I don't think we should, er..." She laughs.

"No, neither do I. I'm a- Not- I mean I don't- Er..." Alistair isn't sure whether he should feel relieved, but he can tell that his face is just as flaming red as hers. She waves her hand, shoves the subject aside and tries to regain her composure. "What I wanted to ask was... will you share your roof with me?"

"What?"

"Uh, it's how we ask- Hm." She takes a breath, then looks into his eyes. "I left the aravels behind nearly a year ago. You know: you've been here almost all the while; have you ever seen me in a tent?"

"Oh! You... want to share my tent? Uh..."

"We could sleep, and the world could be all right for a few hours without us..." she whispers, quoting him.

"What can I say? Your desire is my command." He smiles. "I love you, Finn."

She blushes. Before she can tempt either one of them any further, she rises and puts on a clean tunic. As they make their way back to camp, Finn brushes the back of her hand against his, and he laces his fingers between hers.

Finn wakes in the morning with a smile on her face for the first time in cycles. As she stretches, Alistair is roused by her missing warmth. He sits up and scrubs his face with his hands and runs his fingers through his hair. They look at each other: she leaning back on her arms, her hair a frightful tangle, and he sitting forward with his elbows in his lap, the blankets pooled around their waists.

She grins, and when he smiles back, she giggles. His grin widens. She _giggled._

"You know the others are going to talk, right?"

She laughs. "Let them. I don't care, they can think whatever they like. Maybe the gossip will entertain them. Anyway, first smart comment and I'll feed them to the darkspawn."

He laughs. "There, see, that is why I love you."

"I love you, too," she whispers, the words strange on her tongue. She touches her lips in wonder: how easy it is, now that she has let her heart free.

He grins hugely. "_See?_ Was that so _hard_?"


	10. Je ne Me Soumettrai Pas

Leliana really did mean it when she told Finn she wanted to hear tales of Zevran's homeland. For the nearly two weeks they spend on the way to Ostagar, they sit their watch and swap stories, and eventually fall into an easy camaraderie. She plays her lute and sings for him, and he racks his brain for the worst poetry he can think of.

At Ostagar, he surprises her with his solemnity, and willingness to exhaust himself right alongside the rest of them. "Poor Wardens," Leliana murmurs, as they keep vigil over second watch.

Zevran sighs and tosses a dried leaf into the fire. Leliana looks to him curiously, and he shakes his head in negation. He rubs at the back of his neck, and her eyebrows go up in sudden understanding. "Do... We all did a lot of work today; I can see you are in pain. Would you like me to try to ease that?"

Afterwards, as he stretches and sighs happily, he comments: "You did not learn that skill at a lady's estate."

Leliana looks affronted, but he saw the flicker of surprise that crossed her face just a bare instant before. He chuckles. She opens her mouth to protest, and he holds up a forestalling hand.

"Allow me to give you a simple demonstration." He holds out his hands. "If I may?" She narrows her eyes, but allows him to trade places with her. He sits behind her, and she leans her back against the log. He begins to knead at the terrible knots on the sides of her neck and under her shoulder blades. They are quiet for a time as he honestly works out some of the tenderness their day's exertions has settled upon her.

"Now, someone simply trained in massage will touch these points here..." and he marks out the traditional muscle lines along the tops of her shoulders, down her neck and under her shoulder blades. "...But for those of us who learned at _other_ people's hands know certain areas, such as: here," he gently presses a spot on the backs of her shoulders, and she moans suddenly, surprising both of them. He leans down to whisper in her ear, "...Which is what you just did to me, dear _bard_."

She whips her head around, but he is already leaning back, his hands up again, laughing. She points her finger at him. "_You_ know entirely too much for your own good," she begins, and his laughter increases to silent shaking as tears of mirth run down his cheeks. She scowls. "Oh, pull yourself together, will you?"

He wipes his face with his hands, mastering himself at last. "Oh, that is rich. Do not we _both_ know too much for our own good? But I grew weary of the meek little Chantry sister charade, when I could see so much more when you thought no one was looking." Catching the expression on her face, he grins. "Oh yes, _I_ was looking." She blushes and his grin widens. "Should I not?"

She looks like a startled deer. "No, I-" and her mouth snaps shut abruptly. Her eyes narrow again. "You're trying to _seduce_ me."

"Only if it is working." The sly smile he gives her then recalls her scowl.

She folds her arms over her chest and turns her face away. But now the challenge has been set, she can't leave it alone. After a time, she looks back over her shoulder, and catches him watching her again. She snorts. "You couldn't. I know all the tricks _far_ too well."

He arches an eyebrow. "Oho, is that so? Are you trying to challenge me? I assure you, such measures are unnecessary. If you wish me in your bed, all you need do is say."

She opens her mouth in astonishment. "That- That's not what I meant."

"No? You simply wish to inform me of your purity, is that it?"

"I'm not-" She presses her lips together firmly, but it is too late, and he is laughing again. Infuriating! He is too able to bait her. "That is a dangerous game you play, Zevran," she comments.

He wipes his face again and rests his elbows on his knees. "Ah, it always has been," he replies. "So, perhaps we play, then."

It is her turn to arch an eyebrow. "What sort of game?"

"The kind of game only those such as ourselves are even capable of playing. I'm suggesting we _dance_." He knows he's caught her when her eyes flash in the firelight.

"Oh? By what terms?"

He smiles, both of them trading calculating glances. "You assert you cannot be seduced. I disagree."

Her smile echoes his own. "You say that to get you into my bed is easy, all I need do is ask. I say, you'll be _begging me_ to _let_ you in by the time we're done."

A moment of silence passes between them as they size each other up. "Name your terms," he says, leaning back, all confidence.

"Everything must be carried out so subtly that no one ever becomes suspicious that there may be something going on between us."

He puts his hand to his chin, unconsciously rubbing his lip as he considers. "Hmmm. And to the winner, the spoils," he antes.

"What if neither of us break?"

"I do not think that will happen. But, should it, somehow, then we shall buy ourselves some alcohol and become ridiculously drunk toasting our own steel hearts."

She bites her lip, then abruptly holds out her hand. "Done."

He presses his palm to hers, then deftly grabs her hand and presses her fingers to his lips before she can react. He smiles wolfishly over her hand, looking at her out of the tops of his eyes. "And glad I am to hear it. Let the war commence."

A few nights later, Zevran throws another stick on the fire and looks at Leliana speculatively. Watch is often far too boring. He stands and stretches, trying to keep the cold out of his joints. "It has come to my attention, pretty bard, that, while your skill at the bow is enough to make a wise man run for his mother, you have great trouble trying to beat off those who get inside your aim. I, on the other hand, have very little skill with attacks of long range. So, I propose a trade. I teach you some of my blades, and you show me some of your bow. What say you?"

Leliana rubs her fingers together and blows on them, before holding them out to the fire. She looks up at Zevran askance. "All right. You show me, first."

He grins. "It is a deal. Come, there is a relatively flat area over here where I can show you some of it. First, you will need to learn how to move."

"Oh, I can _move_," she counters, her voice growing sly.

"Ah, I love an over-confident amateur," he retorts.

And then: "Tch. Too slow," he comments as she misses her mark again. He's even making things easier for her by halving his reaction times. She narrows her eyes.

"Too slow?" She sidles up to him, playing at intimacy. She stands a little too close and traces her fingers along his collar bone. She knows she has light fingers, and she uses his distraction to her advantage, but he is impossibly fast and catches her wrist just a hair's breadth from his belt. He wasn't even looking. She pouts and he smiles at her. She thinks, since he has one of her hands, if she leans in suggestively and struggles with the captured one... but he is not fooled, and catches her other one, as well.

He smirks at her. "Oh no, little rabbit, what will you do now?" he murmurs.

She steps into him and runs the inside of her thigh up the outside of his, hooking her knee over his hip and pressing against him wantonly. She leans in as though to kiss him and bites his shoulder instead. He hisses, having been caught unsuspecting, and she presses her advantage to overbalance him and they tumble over onto the ground. As his back hits the stone, he loses his grip on one of her wrists and she yanks it out of his hand. "Hah."

"Ah, but you've only one hand, and, were this for real, you would also be quite dead." He pokes her in the rib with his finger, and she sees that his hand is angled in such a way that if he were holding a dagger, her heart would have stopped by now. He lets go of her wrist, but she doesn't budge. She folds her arms over her chest, still sitting astride his hips.

"Pf. That's not fair. I wasn't playing for kill."

He smirks. "_That_ is why your blade-work is hopeless."

She pouts, but stands, and helps him up. The gesture echoes in her mind, and she pulls her hand away again, suddenly uncomfortable. She takes a step back, no longer in the mood for play.

He senses the shift in her, and gives her space.

But every watch, whenever they aren't practising at blades or bow, they torment each other mercilessly.

Bored with the safety of their watch, Zevran begins to look for ways to torment her during the day, as well. He sits next to her during meals sometimes and presses his thigh against hers. He finds excuses to touch her, pulling a leaf out of her hair, letting his fingers linger upon hers as he passes her a portion of the meal, stopping a little too close behind her sometimes when the Wardens pause to consult the map.

But she gives as good as she gets, leaning over the stew-pot in such a way as to accidentally give him a great view down her bodice, bending from the waist to pick something up to show off her heart-shaped hips, brushing her breast against his arm as she moves past him.

She becomes terrified that they will be discovered, and the game will end.

And this is how he begins to suspect he is winning.

Standing on the ridge, looking over Denerim, she stands hip to hip with him, but slightly behind him, so that there is a secret hollow between their hips and she brushes the back of her hand against his backside. As the others turn to go down to the path, he turns in such a way as to "accidentally" press the flat of his hand against the inside of her hip bone. His fingers brush against the line of her panties, where they press against her thigh, and she struggles not to gasp.

When the ground falls away, everything happens too quickly. She is still walking behind him, and she has reason to thank the Maker that he is so very deadly fast, because his grip on her wrist is the only thing that saves her from falling to her end at the bottom of the cliff. He pulls her back up. Morrigan is screaming. Leliana turns around to see the road completely gone, and Alistair is hanging on by sheer force of will at the crumbling edge.

"Alistair!" she shouts, tumbling to her knees. "Take my hand!" Zevran is there right next to her, helping to haul the Warden up. Zevran leaps to his feet as soon as Alistair has gained purchase on the ground. Alistair looks over his shoulder as he stands and his face goes completely pale.

Zevran sees Finn struggling, hanging far below from a rock that is far too unstable.

"Maker! Finn!" Alistair shouts, reaching out impotently.

Zevran throws a coil of rope to Sten, who has just saved Finn's mabari. "Sten! Catch!" Sten begins tying off the end against a boulder nearby.

Leliana turns around and sees what Morrigan was screaming about. A large rock has fallen on her, crushing her leg. "Oh, Andraste! Morrigan!" Wynne is sitting up, shaking her head. "Wynne! Help!" Leliana dashes over to Morrigan and tries to lift the rock. "It's too heavy!" Wynne scrambles over to them and helps Leliana lift the rock off of Morrigan. Blood begins to pool on the ground under her, and she faints. Wynne kneels next to her and lays her hands upon the witch's leg.

Sten finishes with the rope. "Done."

Zevran has tied Alistair up with the other end of the rope, creating a sturdy harness. "Ready," he replies.

Alistair takes a deep breath. "Ready," he echoes.

"Go," Sten commands. Alistair steps off the ledge; Sten and Zevran take the brunt of his impact at the end of the rope, and Leliana lends her strength to it. They let the rope out as fast as they can. Morrigan, finally standing, comes to the edge and peers over. She sees the rock begin to give way.

"Quickly!" she snaps, then wonders at herself that she finds she cares about this woman.

Alistair's arms reach under Finn's just as the rock gives way, and there is one heart-stopping moment when she screams and everyone fears that she will slip through his fingers. But then they are hauling, and everyone ends up on the same side of the rift at last.

Finn moves away from everyone rather quickly after they pull her up, and cowers against the wall. Zevran saw her face when she came up, and quickly wets a cloth for her to wash her face. Alistair hovers over her protectively.

"Parsherra," Sten growls, "We should be moving; the day grows old."

"Have a heart, you big brute; she almost fell to her death. Let the girl have a moment to collect herself," Wynne chides.

Morrigan fusses with her skirt. "Oh, all this blood is going to dry and smell by the time we get to camp," she complains.

"I'm a healer, not a laundry service," Wynne replies tartly. They exchange withering looks.

Leliana glances furtively at Zevran, her eyes still a little wide. He catches her look and nods gravely in acknowledgement. Ponka dances back and forth, and darts after Finn as she suddenly turns and walks away without warning. Alistair turns around, at a loss, and spreads his hands, shrugs. "I guess we're going, now," he says, and follows after her.

Arriving at camp, finally, everyone lays down their packs to catch their breath. Ponka flops down under Bodhan's wagon. Morrigan goes over to her hut to change her skirts and Sten washes his face with the last of a canteen. Alistair lays down his pack and sprawls on the ground on his back. Wynne sinks gratefully to the ground, turning her face to the sky. Zevran paces, and Leliana tries to act like she's not watching him.

She stretches and yawns. "I am thinking perhaps I would like to have a warm, soft bed to sleep in tonight," she comments, looking at the city walls.

Wynne sighs appreciatively. "That sounds like an excellent idea."

Morrigan emerges from her hut. "Did I hear something about soft beds?"

Zevran snorts. "It is beginning to sound unanimous."

Alistair groans. "No more _walking_. I'm not moving."

Leliana laughs, and Zevran looks to Sten. "What say you?"

Sten rumbles, "I will stay at camp."

Leliana stands up. "Let's go quickly, before the bakeries close. I want to see if I can get a pastry before bed. I think I have more than earned it, after today's little adventure."

Sten looks sharply at Leliana. "What is this, 'pastry'?"

She looks at him incredulously, then holds her hands out in a circle. "It's sweet, and flaky, like a... a bread, only lighter, fluffy, and sometimes it has jam, or, oh, sweet cream." She closes her eyes rapturously. "Now I'm hungry. Let's go," she says to Wynne, and holds out her hand to help the woman up.

As they all leave the camp, Morrigan turns to find Sten following. "I thought you had decided to stay behind," she says.

Sten grunts. "I wish to see these 'bakeries'."

They reach the nearest bakery just as the shopkeeper is sweeping up and getting ready to close. Leliana opens the door, and he looks up. "Closed, miss, come back tomorrow."

"Oh, no, ser, please, I simply _must_ have pastries!"

The man blinks.

She holds out a silver coin.

"Ah! Welcome, kind lady. Please, come in, what can old Seamus do for you today, hm?"

For that one silver coin, they all walk out with full bags. Morrigan smiles at Leliana, a scone in her hand. She holds the scone up as though in toast. "You have my thanks." Sten grunts, his mouth full of cookie. Wynne gives Leliana a motherly peck on the cheek.

Taken aback, Leliana stammers, "Oh! I, uh, you're welcome! Er, see you at camp!"

Wynne and Morrigan link arms with Sten, and they move off into the night, toward the Gnawed Noble. Leliana looks at Zevran, who is leaning against a post, nibbling on a piece of biscotti. He sighs happily. "Ah, a touch of home," he says, looking at it fondly.

"What now?" she asks. She licks a blob of jam off her finger, and notices that the gesture is not lost on him. His eyes turn slightly predatory, and she grins.

"I think it wise that we secure a comfortable place to sleep before sampling the offers of Denerim's night life."

"Hmmm... you have a point," she replies. "Where shall we go? I am not so familiar with the city... but you have been here before, no? Where did you stay?"

Zevran laughs. "Let me introduce you to The Pearl."

They are disconcerted to discover that there is only one room left that is available for purchase that night. Zevran and Leliana exchange glances in silent conversation, daring each other to back down.

They pay for the room.


	11. Balli di Desiderio

Leliana and Zevran meet back in the common room, after visiting the baths. "I know what we can do tonight," Leliana says. She smiles, barely containing her glee, and bounces on her toes. "You'll never guess what I've got."

Zevran studies her carefully, but his face clearly shows that he can make neither head nor tail of her strange behaviour. He shakes his head. "Tell me."

She giggles. "Let's go upstairs," she suggests.

Once in the room, she closes the door behind her and leans against it. She grins hugely and produces a very small scroll, which she lays in his hand. He turns it over in his fingers. The bars are made of spun silver, the scroll from black velvet, with silver paint forming swirls through the nap. A tasselled ribbon of black silk ties it closed.

"This is a key. But to what door, I wonder?"

The words tumble out of her all at once: "I... er, _found_ that in the pouch of a merchant's wife in the marketplace. There is a masquerade ball at the estate of a lady who hopes to make it into the good graces of Anora and Loghain. She has opened her home to anyone of status, and so she does not know all of those who will be attending. We have an invitation. We can go there. Tonight. Now, actually." She giggles again. "Oh! Costumes!" she exclaims, throwing her arms up dramatically, in rapture, and darts out of the room.

She dashes down the hallway. "Sanga!" The woman turns as Leliana catches up with her. She leans down and whispers in her ear, "I've a pouch _full_ of silver for you if you've got anything we can wear to a masquerade."

With Sanga's help, Leliana quickly settles on an appropriate outfit and mask for each of them. His, the costume of a fox – all golds, yellows, and russet reds – and for her, the mask of a bird the colour of the summer sky. Sanga sends the second costume out the door in the hands of a young boy. Leliana dresses in the costume closet, quickly applying make-up and artfully twisting up her hair with a strand of black beads. She hands Sanga the pouch and meets Zevran at the base of the stairs.

The suit she hastily picked out for him fits him _extremely_ well. When she lays eyes upon him, she nearly misses a step, but recovers quickly. He doesn't turn his head until she reaches the bottom of the stairs.

Zevran takes Leliana's hand and leans over it in a courtly bow that is angle-perfect, but the heat of his lips upon her gloved hand is far from staid. He grins at her, his eyes eloquent in silence. He takes her arm and leads her out of The Pearl as though they were exiting the doors of the finest estate in all of Ferelden.

A couple of blocks up the street, Leliana stops to adjust her stockings, retying them at the thigh. She catches him staring.

This is when she begins to suspect that she is winning.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

They have little trouble gaining access to the estate. The masquerade is the great equalizer, allowing everyone of every station to converse freely behind the anonymity of the mask.

As soon as they enter, a man in a cat's face mask catches Leliana's elbow and asks her to dance. She smiles, leaning into him, flattering him, charming him. Zevran watches her with critical eye as she dances around the room with him, wrapping him around her finger with her sparkling laughter, ample curves and graceful step.

As she spins around the floor, Leliana sees Zevran across the room with a petite woman dressed as a red butterfly. He is leaning at an insolent angle against the wall, chatting easily. Her glossy black curls bounce in the firelight as she laughs at something he has said to her. He leans in to whisper something in her ear, and her lips part, as though he were about to kiss her instead.

Zevran circles the room, keeping an eye on Leliana. She is talking to another man dressed as a jester. She rolls her shoulders forward, tilting her head shyly as he runs his fingers lightly down her arm. Zevran does not miss the look she casts the man.

Leliana glances up from her wine glass to see Zevran on the dance floor with a woman dressed as a field of wild summer flowers. She is breathless as they complete a complicated turn, ending face to face, and he grins. Leliana puts down her wine and takes up conversation with a man dressed as winter.

Zevran leans against a balustrade, watching Leliana being effortlessly carried around the dance floor by a huge barbarian of a man dressed as an oak tree. He sees the way she caresses the man's arm as they turn, the way her fingers linger just a fraction of a moment too long on his hand.

When Leliana returns from the garde-robe, she sees Zevran with a woman who is dressed as a princess, with a filigreed copper mask. He is leaning against a wall, and she is in front of him, leaning toward him, every line of her body indicating yearning, to the trained eye. He laughs at something she says and runs his finger down her jaw. He responds, with that sly smile curving his lips, and then rolls away, sauntering off while the woman puts a hand to her chest and leans against the wall.

He sees Leliana when she takes the floor for the final quadrille of the night: it is a complicated rounds dance, and he positions himself so that he shall be her last partner. He can feel the curve and sway of her hip, smell her perfume. The heat of her body radiates against his as though he already has her skin to skin.

He holds her closer than is strictly necessary, leads her expertly and firmly, and she soon finds herself breathless, trying to follow his muscular grace. She can smell him, a heady musk of trees, wind, fire, and herb. Her thigh presses against his as she misjudges a turn and she tries not to think about the heat of his hand upon her waist. She looks at his eyes and for a moment, she can almost taste him. She wishes ardently for him to give in.

The dance ends, and they bow to each other. A toast is held to the mistress of the estate, and everyone begins to disperse. Leliana takes Zevran's proffered arm and they move toward the garden and the gates.

Back at the Pearl, Leliana gratefully sits upon the small chair in the corner of the room. She stretches her leg out, turning her knee inward to reach the clasp on the outside of her high-heeled slipper. She has to hike her voluminous skirt up over her knee to be able to see it.

Zevran watches her as he slowly removes his jacket and hangs it on a hook.

She sets her shoes aside and rubs at her feet for a moment before standing and placing each one in turn upon the seat so that she may roll down her stockings. She carefully avoids looking up at him.

He pulls his boots off and sets them on the floor under the hook.

She removes her mask and hangs it upon a nail on the wall, runs her fingers over its feathers one last time. He lays his aside upon the bench under the hook.

She unfastens the ties at her waist and begins to pull the dress off over her head.

He pulls his shirt free of his breeches as her head disappears into the bodice of her dress; he takes his time unbuttoning the shirt, mesmerized by the sway of her body. He misses none of the skin the ever-rising dress begins to reveal.

She cocks her hips to the side, pressing her knees together. She breathes in as the dress passes her belly, arching her back to avoid touching the dress with her hair or make-up She extricates herself at last and exhales in relief. Carefully, she arranges the dress upon its hanger, her back to Zevran.

He traces the curve of her waist with his eyes as he shrugs out of his shirt, the way she moves her fingers as she pins the dress back in place upon its hanger, the hair kissing the nape of her neck. His hands twitch and he nearly misses the hook.

She can feel his eyes burning into her back, but when she turns, he is simply leaning against the door with a bored expression on his face, arms crossed over his bare chest. Her eyes trace the lines of his tattoos, and she knows he is watching her stare. She turns quickly to the mirror and begins to remove her make-up.

He stands behind her, his reflection visible beside hers. Capturing her gaze in the mirror, he slowly reaches toward her hair, allowing her time to protest. When she does not, he begins to pull the pins and beads from it. She closes her eyes when he combs his fingers through her hair, dislodging the tangles and the final few pins. She can feel his breath on her neck, and she shivers. He leaves them in a tidy pile upon the table and turns away.

She pulls a loose tunic on over her head. The lamplight shines through it, showing her curves through the thin fabric. When she turns, he is leaning against the wall again, and she notices how his tattoos disappear beneath the waist of his pants, and how _low_ those pants ride on his hips.

He does not miss the path of her wandering gaze. Glancing aside again, she reaches up under her shirt to unclasp her bra, and pulls it out through her sleeve. As she turns, where the lamplight hits the shirt, he can see the dark circle of her nipple against the fabric, and she catches him looking.

He watches her glance at the bed and hesitate. He waits.

She folds her arms over her chest.

He leans down and blows out the lamp. The night is overcast, and very little light comes through the window. The room sinks into velvet darkness.

After a moment, Zevran's voice comes from the bed. "I happen to know you do not sleep standing up."

She bites her lip and, after a moment's more hesitation, crawls into bed. It feels narrower in the dark than it had looked in the light. She can feel the heat of his skin, a long line against the side of her body. She rolls to the side and puts her back to him.

He chuckles. "At what point will you admit defeat, little rabbit?" he whispers into the dark.

"Defeat? Why would I do that?"

"If you wish to win, you must remain immune to my charms _and_, by your term, I should be begging at your feet. Yet, this has not happened. However, for me to win, all I must do is awaken your desire. What you do with that is entirely up to you, of course. You may continue to pretend that it is not so, but the truth does not need to be believed in, or admitted to, in order to remain: the truth."

The moon shines briefly through a thin patch as she sits up abruptly. She glimpses his satisfied smile and the glint of his earring before the darkness envelops them both. "I- You- When did you come to this conclusion?"

He laughs. "Truly? Can it be that you do not know? At the top of the cliff, as we looked out at the city. It was a simple thing, yet I heard."

"You startled me!"

"Another? Here, tonight, you stumbled upon the stairs when you saw me, before we even left."

She snorts. "That hardly proves anything. I was wearing heels. It could happen to anyone."

He sighs. "Oh, I must go on? Hmm... All right, if you wish me to ignore all the jealous glances and the look on your face when I was speaking to that deliciously innocent copper princess, then perhaps you will recall the final quadrille."

She does not respond; she knows she's been caught. "I am undone," she whispers.

"_Sì._"

They are quiet for a long while. Leliana folds her arms on her upraised knees and puts her head down.

At last, he breaks the silence. "If you wish to sleep sitting up, might I suggest the wall? As you are, you may have trouble walking by morning."

She sighs and falls back to the pillow. "All right." She takes a deep breath. "I- You win," she murmurs.

His satisfied smirk is audible in the short laugh he gives then. "And to the winner?"

Her heart speeds in her chest and she closes her eyes. "The spoils," she breathes.

He drags his fingertips down her forearm and across the back of her hand, pulls it upward and presses a burning kiss to her palm. Her fingers curl reflexively, her nails across his cheek. She shivers, and she can feel his smile against her palm. Her breathing picks up. She grabs a fistful of the blanket, still trying desperately to maintain control.

"Tell me about your desire," he whispers in her ear.

The heat of his breath washes across her neck, and she turns toward him before she can stop herself.

He brushes his lips against hers, and he can feel, rather than hear, the sigh that escapes her then. She arches toward him, but he pulls away, laughing in whisper. "Oh, no, it is not so easy as that, little rabbit. No. You must speak. Use that honeyed tongue, and _tell_ me."

When she remains silent, he moves from her, leaving her cold. She shivers again and curls on herself, her hand clutching the sheet. She can sense him there, but she doesn't dare to reach out, she cannot give in, even now. Her lips tremble over the words her mind rebels against speaking.

She hears his trousers hit the floor, the sound wresting a small gasp from her. Now, of all times, her words desert her. The bed shifts as he sits upon it. He slides his hand toward her, and as the moon briefly blinks awake, she sees his fingers across hers, dark against fair. Before she can hesitate or think twice about it, she flips her hand over and laces her fingers through his. Though she can only see his face for a fleeting moment as the light fades again, she does not miss the fire this ignites behind his eyes.

She closes her eyes, a long, slow blink. "Zevran," she murmurs.

"Mmm?"

"Mustn't speak such things... Let me whisper in your ear."

He slides in next to her, on his back, and she rests her head in the hollow of his shoulder. Turning her lips to his ear, she begins to whisper. She whispers a tale of his eyes in the firelight, the length of his stride, the strength in his arms. Her hand slowly creeps up until she is pressing her palm against his cheek as her words grow more heated.

She tells him of the silence of his footsteps, the grace in his fighting, and the timbre of his voice. He wraps his arm around her shoulders as she presses closer. She tells him of the hardness of his thigh, the smoke in his hair, and the expressiveness of his hands. She presses her stomach against his hip and wraps her leg over his.

She breathes a song of his scent, the warmth of his skin, and the lines of his tattoos; the press of his lips, the curve of his smile, and the way he speaks her name. She moulds herself against his side as his hand slips down her hip. She surges against him when he touches her lips with his own. As his tongue slips between her lips, she responds with abandon, a moaning whimper escaping her.

His hand slides the tunic up over her hip, travelling ever higher. She explores every inch of his skin she can reach, pulling him upward and over her to gain access to more. His hands dance across her breasts, bringing her arching upward, breaking the kiss. He slips his hands under her back as his mouth takes their place. He angles her hips upward and slides her out of her panties as his hands travel downward. She shudders as his hands travel over her thighs.

And then she is moaning and clutching at the bed posts as he buries his face between them. She is beyond all reason when he pulls away from her, and she sits up, a stray beam of moonlight falling across her wild eyes. She bares her teeth as the light is cut off like a snuffed candle. She pounces upon him, knocking him backward, and they tumble to the floor.

She bites his shoulder again, remembering the first night they played at blades.

He laughs as his back hits the floor, thinking of the same thing.

He grabs her by the hips and pries her off, sitting up, holding her in his lap. They grapple and he captures her wrists, then growls and bites the side of her neck. She whimpers and leans into him, her nails curling into her palms. He loosens his grip, puts his arms around her; released, she wriggles free and leaps back toward the bed, but she trips over his discarded pants and lands heavily on her stomach against the side of it, instead.

Before she can scramble any farther, she feels his hands at her hips, curving around the points, his fingers splaying across the sensitive line where her stomach ends and her hair begins. She sways, then darts forward, pulling him with her onto the bed. She rises on her knees as he still refuses to let go of her waist, and she twists her shoulders. He growls, tightens an arm around her waist and grabs a fistful of her hair; tilting her head to the side, he bites the back of her neck, and all the fight goes out of her, a raw moan escaping her throat.

Thus tamed, he is able to continue his exploration of her skin and all her soft curves. She reaches down, running her fingers up the outsides of his thighs, but he captures her wrists again. She snarls her frustration and begins to struggle, but the way he moves against her then snatches the breath from her and bows her back.

He takes advantage of the way she straightens up then and releases her wrists in favour of plunging one hand between her legs and filling the other with her breast. She presses her hands to his forearms, a fast-paced whimper breathlessly slipping between her lips. He carries her forward, one knee at a time, until she runs out of bed and fetches up against the headboard.

She braces her hands against the wall as he tugs her hips backward and pushes her knees out to the sides. He runs his hands down her back, a feather-light touch that sends shivers through her and arches her back even more. He leans forward just far enough to touch that wet heat, and she sobs with need, trying to push herself backward against him. He chuckles darkly, allowing her only the smallest increments as she writhes against the wall.

He guides her into the slow rocking rhythm that she picks up so easily he is able to let go of her hips as she continues her own torment. He runs his fingertips up the backs of her thighs, cupping the curve of her bottom, continuing across her lower back, encouraging her. "_Sì, sì, trema e sospira per me, coniglietta,_" he murmurs, and she moans.

She loses it when she reaches the base of him, and she begins to shudder and sob again. "_Shh... Shh... E' solo l'inizio..._" he whispers, and he brings the rhythm back to her. She moans helplessly, her hands clawing at the wall. Her voice grows louder and louder, and then breaks into breathless keening just before the fires wash over her and she shrieks, pressing her mouth to her arm.

He stills, allowing her to catch her breath. She is shaking with the effort of holding herself up any longer, and he relents.

"_Non, Zev, t'arrêtes pas, s'il te plaît, s'il te plaît, t'arrêtes pas,_" she begs desperately as he slowly withdraws, but she is too weakened in the moment to stop him. He pulls her away from the wall and she falls to the bed. He rolls her to her back; when he kneels between her thighs, she pulls him down, her hips rising to meet him.

She sighs in relief as he fills her again, wrapping her arms and legs around him tightly. She buries her face in his neck, once more breathless, and he listens to her spiralling upward again, music to his ears. This time, as she reaches her release, her inner tide calls to him, pulls him under, and he groans quietly into her neck even as she is attempting to muffle her impassioned cry against his shoulder.

Afterwards, he takes great delight in the fact that she is completely incoherent. All she is able to do is whimper, clinging to him weakly; when she is tucked against his side, his heartbeat beneath her ear, she falls asleep at once.

He grins. He should have warned her from the start; as soon as she took his hand, this was inevitable.


	12. Little Waltz of Heartbeats

Having Finn in his tent has been proving a challenge for Alistair. Every night, she is in his arms, warm and soft. This is turning out to be a mixed blessing. He can feel every curve of her against his side, hear her soft breathing, smell her hair. Her small hand presses to his chest, as though she must feel his heart beating to feel safe enough to sleep. Sometimes her nightmares come, and he pulls her closer, whispers in her ear, and she will breathe his name, as though she hardly dares to believe he could be there, and then she is still again, nestled safe in his arms.

He can hardly believe that this incredible woman is suddenly with him, that she feels safe enough now that her nightmares slip away, just hearing the sound of his voice. Every night when they are supposed to be sleeping, he spends half the night just marvelling that she is there, solid and real.

But then there is the fact that she _moves_ in her sleep. Up to this point, when she would cling to him in the night, it was fear, and she was thrashing and needing protection. But now that she feels safe, it is completely different. The first couple of nights, it was innocent enough: her hand would stray across his side a few times before going still, or he would suddenly find her palm pressed to his cheek, or her foot would slip between his.

But the last couple of nights have been torture. It became difficult for him the night she flung her leg over his hip and he became almost _painfully_ aware that the inside of her thigh was moving _directly_ against his... _it_. He didn't dare move, in case he woke her, but at the same time, he wondered if that might not be the best idea. To make things worse, she would occasionally _shift_, and he spent half the night struggling with his instincts to let her remain innocent in sleep.

Last night, he wisely tried to avoid the same complication by sleeping with his back to her. But then she flung her arm over his waist as she rolled in her sleep, and her hand, it landed... Before he could grab her arm and move it, she mumbled something about needing to "pick a few more", and her hand flexed as though she were grabbing for something... only the _something_ she grabbed was _not_ a plant.

He watches her now as she moves about the camp, the grace in her long legs, the turn of her face in the firelight as she laughs at something Leliana said to her. The handful of herbs she offers to Zevran makes him twitch, and he has to stop looking. Maker help him, she is sitting next to him again, and he can feel the length of her thigh against his. He passes a hand over his face and tries to make normal conversation. Hah. Normal. Which pretty much means he feels like a bumbling idiot, as usual.

But, oh, she laughs, she laughs at all the stupid things he says, and he loves her for that. She doesn't judge him. So he puts his arm around her and laughs with her, and she turns her face up and kisses him, totally unselfconscious, and he loves her for that, too. He looks at her as she leans back, touches her hair with his big, clumsy fingers, and smooths it away from her forehead. Her eyebrows pull together. "What is it?" she whispers.

"I was just thinking... I am a lucky man." Oh, her smile, it pulls on his heart. Then she is kissing him again, and he can feel her breast pressing against his arm. The things he wants to do to her now... _I lie. I'm a bad, bad man._ He traces the line of her tattoo with his finger as she gazes up at him, and is awed again by the look in her eyes.

They turn in after dinner. He tries to avoid complications by curling up behind her this time, however, he wakes half way through second watch with her arm slung across his hips, twitching and mumbling something about catching halla. He squeezes his eyes shut, but it's no good. Carefully, he extricates himself from Finn's embrace and sits up. He rubs his face with both hands and looks down at her sleeping form. He's never seen her so peaceful, and it makes him smile that she finds it with him.

He watches the shadows cast upon the tent by the flickering firelight, trying to calm himself. At last, he determines that a walk might help. And maybe a jump in the river. Maybe he can talk to Leliana about it... She's from the Chantry, right? So quiet and unassuming, sweet and gentle. She might have some insight, something that could help him get a grip on himself.

During his training as a Templar, it seemed so easy. He'd be dressed in full plate, they'd be mages, there wouldn't be that much to tempt him when he knew that any one of them could suddenly burst into abomination at any moment. Who would want to touch that? But this, with Finn, this is very, very different. Surely Leliana will know something of this, how to conquer this kind of temptation.

Quietly, he pulls the flap aside and rolls out of the tent. He brushes off his feet and puts his boots on, then looks around. There is no one around, at all. Leaning back into the tent, he quietly grabs the sheath of his sword and pulls it out. Letting the flap fall again, he straps the sword to his waist and looks around again, with an eye for the ground. No signs of a struggle, and Skanda snores on next to his tent.

Then he hears it, a woman's voice, crying out, quickly silenced. He stalks into the woods, watching the placement of his feet, nearly silent without his armour to get in the way. He feels naked without his shield, but there's no time to go back for it. He can hear her whimpering. _Maker, is she hurt?_ Murderous thoughts regarding the Antivan assassin begin to race through his head, coupled with terrible ideas of what could be happening to Leliana _right now_.

He can hear her mewling from ground level, on the other side of a thick tree. He puts his back to it and his hand on the hilt of his sword. He takes a deep breath, and leans around the side of the tree to get a look at what is going on.

Immediately, he wishes he hadn't, and he ducks back quickly. He closes his eyes, trying to wipe the vision from his mind, but he can't _un_see it, the image of Leliana tangled around Zevran, her head thrown back, her breasts naked to the air, clearly _enjoying_ herself. He creeps back to camp, unbuckles his sword belt again, and sits on a rock by the fire.

Obviously, she doesn't know anything more about chastity than he does, if she can be doing _that_... with _him_... on the _ground_...

He shakes his head. After a time, Leliana and Zevran return from the woods. She, at least, has the good grace to look embarrassed. Zevran, of course, is completely shameless, and drops onto the log on the other side of the fire with an air of total indifference. Leliana sits there, too, but not particularly close to Zevran.

After a time, Alistair says, "It's good to know the camp is being so diligently watched over."

Leliana blushes scarlet and drops her face into her hands, but Zevran smirks. "The hound was quiet, Sten snored on, and the firelight remained consistent. Finn mumbled in her sleep, Wynne moaned as she rolled over, and Morrigan is not actually asleep. Your snoring stopped, but, though you grabbed your sword, there was really nothing to indicate any trouble. You do not _listen_ my friend. Do you not know the difference between a cry of passion and that of pain?" Leliana tries to elbow him in the ribs, but he catches her easily. "Tch. Too slow. Again. You really must learn to stop dropping your shoulder."

She pulls her arm away and scowls at him. "Don't tease him. He was raised in the Chantry."

Alistair runs his hand through his hair and shakes his head. "I'm going back to bed. You two just... _Maker_... try to keep it down, will you?" He shakes his head again and crawls back into the tent with Finn. She is sprawled across the blankets on her back. He sits with his feet hanging out of the tent and pulls his boots off. Before he can return to the bed, she rolls over and her arm falls upon the empty place where he is meant to be. She starts, wakes, and sits up quickly, panic in her eyes. She doesn't see him at first, so he catches her hand and scoots over to her, pulls her into his arms.

"Shh... Sorry, I'm right here." He lays down again with her. The moment her face is pressed to his collar bone, her palm to his heart, she is asleep. She flings her thigh over him again, and he is back to the torture.

He stares at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to steal over him. He thinks of the barracks conversation the other Wardens made, many times, and the themes they favoured. They spoke of women like food, something to feed an appetite. The way Leliana and Zevran are, he sees no love there. He had no idea they were... connected... at all. He remembers the marriages of the adults he was around when he was a kid, but they are so remote from him, seen through a child's eyes. He feels cast adrift, lost on an ocean of possibilities without even a single board of context to cling to.

He looks down at her face again, her profile pale against the backdrop of her dark hair. He wants to touch her, to kiss her, to hold her against him, to feel her skin; he wants to cup her breasts in his hands, to watch her eyes flutter closed, he wants to put the same look on her face that he saw on Leliana's, and the fire of this need burns terribly in his veins. He closes his eyes, willing himself to be still. No matter what, she has to be the one to come to him, it has to be her choice.

But, _Maker_, she doesn't make it easy.

She never has.


	13. Blood and Ashes

Finn is good at riddles. The strange ghosts of the Gauntlet pose her no troubles, and soon the doorway to the end of the hall is open. Leliana smiles at her. "Cleverly done!" Finn blushes.

"We would play at riddles, when the nights were long. I was always the best, so, after a time the Keeper only let me answer if the others couldn't. My favourite wa-"

Finn stops dead, the blood draining from her face. Instantly, tears fill her eyes; she is staring at a blonde-haired elven man with scrolling tattoos on his cheeks. For a long, tense moment, neither of them speaks. Then: "_Emma ir abelas, lethallin_," she breathes. "They told me you were dead; we held your funeral!" She darts forward, throwing herself into the man's arms hard enough to stagger him. He holds her, presses his cheek to her hair as she begins to sob on his shoulder.

Alistair stands, rooted to the spot in the doorway, an iron fist gripping his heart. He recognizes this man's face from Finn's book. _So this is Tamlen._ He watches as Finn cries hysterically, murmuring in Tamlen's ear. He runs his hands over her hair, her back, and, after a time, pulls away to look at her face. He wipes the tears away and kisses her softly, holds her face in his hands.

The look on her face... Maker help him, his _hands_ on her... Alistair closes his eyes, drops his head, and turns his back to the scene. He stretches his arms up and clasps his hands behind his head, pacing back and forth. He wants to tear down the walls.

But he doesn't miss what Tamlen says next. "_Ma lath sa'vunin, lethallan_, but I am just a memory, and I cannot stay." Finn bursts into tears again.

_A memory._ He looks at the empty alcoves where the ghosts of Andraste's past had stood, thin as smoke, after all this time. _Time..._ Suddenly, Alistair is certain that this is another ghost, so solid because he is still very real to Finn.

"Then why can I touch you?" Finn wails.

Alistair turns around, now very concerned for Finn's state of mind. Tamlen takes her hand, gently, and presses it to his chest. He cups her cheek in his other hand, smoothing away a fresh run of tears. "No," she whispers, "_Ma vhenan..._"

"_Lath sa'vunin_," he repeats. Finn looks disbelieving.

"_Ma serannas, Finnariel; ma lath na revas_," he says, and another tear slips down her cheek.

He takes her by the shoulders, gently, and says, gravely: "_Ma samahl, sulahn'nehn, lath na Shemlen,_" then looks meaningfully to Alistair. There is a moment there, where Alistair meets the man's eyes, and he sees acceptance, the look of someone who knows that what is to come next is inevitable. He's seen that look before, on the faces of the men who left their wives to go to war. The ones who were certain they weren't coming back.

"_Emma melana sahlin,_" Tamlen says then, looking back to Finn. He traces her tattoo in a particular way, different from the pattern Alistair sees; she closes her eyes.

Tamlen presses something into her hand that glints in the torchlight, and kisses her again. Then there is a blinding flash of light. When his eyes clear, Alistair sees Finn standing there, alone. She makes a strangled sound, her hand reaching out to the empty air. She falls to her knees, covers her face with her hands, and weeps. An amulet slips from her fingers and clatters to the ground next to her.

Leliana pushes Alistair forward. He sighs, heavy with sadness, and tugs off his gauntlets. After a long year of pulling her through this sorrow, does it all begin again, when she has just finally begun to find some peace? He drops to one knee behind her and puts his hand on her shoulder. "Finn?"

She turns toward him, lifting her face from her hands, and the terrible pain he reads there echoes back to those first weeks when he wondered whether she had survived the Joining only to drink herself to death. He brushes the tears away from her cheeks with the backs of his hands. She looks so lost.

"Alistair," she breathes, her voice breaking. There is an agonizing moment where he isn't sure if she's going to hug him, hurt him, or run, and then she is pressing her face to his neck, and crying again. He curses his plate for being in the way at this moment, and holds her awkwardly. Wynne surreptitiously hands him a cloth, and Finn wipes her face with it. She surprises him for a second time when she suddenly leans up and kisses him.

_Maybe this won't be as difficult as I thought._

He leans back, cups her face in his hands, runs his thumbs over her eyebrows. He waits while she tries to master her breathing. He can hear by the distance of their conversation that Wynne and Leliana have moved back into the other room to give him and Finn some space. "What did he say?"

Finn chokes on a laugh. "No secrets. No secrets, we said, we agreed, no secrets," she babbles. She takes a deep breath, and then haltingly, she stammers: "He said, I... lived to love one more day... it is our way of acknowledging th- that I survived while h- he did not. He- he said that my... love... had..." She chokes again, and it takes her a moment to continue. Alistair brushes her hair away from her neck, resentful of their armour again. "That I- it _freed_ him... that I need to laugh again, and take joy in being alive... and he said I sh- _I should love you_, be- because his time had come..." She finishes in a whisper, and then she is kissing him again, this time closer to her normal, to _his_ Finn.

After they fight their own shades, Finn wanders through the rest of the gauntlet in a daze, never straying more than an arm's length from him, whenever possible. When they come to the final test, Finn does not even hesitate. She simply drops her armour and clothing where she stands, and walks through the fire. Everyone is awed and respectful of this resting place, and Finn only takes the tiniest amount of the ashes, and even that only with clear reluctance.

They are all silent on the way back down the mountainside, and, in the morning, Finn begins to push, almost as hard as she did from the Tower back to Redcliffe when they were trying to save Connor. Her nightmares return, and Alistair gets very little sleep, all the way there. So it is that they arrive exhausted, but with the cure that works a miracle.

When Eamon begins speaking of putting Alistair up on the throne, Finn goes so cold on him that it gives Alistair pause. Her voice is low, and calm, but she is standing in front of him, and he can see the set of her shoulders and hear the steel in her tone. "With all due respect, Alistair can_**not**_ be king, Eamon. He is a Grey Warden. We hold no other titles, and our duty _cannot_ be forsworn. I do not care whose blood flows through his veins, it belongs to the Wardens, now, in a more permanent way than you will ever be given to understand. I advise you to make other plans." The hard line of her mouth should have stopped the man, but Eamon continues to try and make Alistair feel guilty about a duty Eamon imagines Alistair to have.

He caves, just to get Eamon to shut up, and accepts the offer of a warm, soft bed for the night. He steers a silently seething Finn out of the hall and toward the guest rooms. "He doesn't know what he's talking about," Alistair murmurs as they reach the upper hall.

"I know," she spits under her breath. "That's why I find it so infuriating that he thinks he can simply circumvent what it means to be who we are, on the apparent grounds that the facts come from you and me. You're his former ward, so he condescends to you and treats you still like a child." She rants continuously in a low growl as he kicks the door shut behind them and begins working on the buckles of her armour. "And I, the _elf_, a second-class, ignorable non-person, and female as well. Certainly unreliable and worthy of no note, either of us, never mind how we have nearly killed ourselves countless times, trying to save him and his family."

She's working on his armour when a timid knock at the door announces the arrival of an elven servant from the kitchens. "Ah, _ma serannas_, sister," Finn says, taking the bucket of hot water from a blinking maid.

"You're Dalish," she says, obviously surprised.

"Yes. And you're not," Finn replies, obviously unconcerned. She pours the bucket into a tub nearby and hands it back to the maid, empty. "Are there more?"

"Yes, ser, at least six."

"It's Finn. And you are?"

"Alara, ser."

"Finn."

"Finn," the maid echoes, a smile beginning to quirk at the corners of her mouth.

"All right, then, tell the others not to treat me like a noble, and we'll be fine." Finn smiles warmly at the maid as she leaves. A steady trickle of servants come and go with buckets and food, and Finn makes a point of greeting each one, thanking them, learning their names, and treating them as valued peers. Alara is the last to leave, making sure that all is well with them, and inviting them to attend a small, informal party that the servants are holding the next evening.

Finn leans around him to look at the maid. "I'd love to join you; I'll have to speak with my companions before I can say yes, though." The door shuts behind a pleased Alara, and Finn giggles. "I wonder what going to a party will be like."

They finish removing their armour, and Finn gleefully strips down to her smalls and sits on the edge of the tub to wash up. "Oh, it feels so _nice_ to be rid of that gritty, red dust we've been breathing for the last two days." She bends from the waist to wash her hair in the tub, affording him with an uninterrupted view of the length of her back and the curve of her hips. He suddenly doesn't want to bathe in front of her.

Finished with her hair, she twists it up tightly, shedding water from it, and stands up. The water runs down her body, tracing the curves of her breasts, her stomach, her hips, her thighs, dripping off of her jaw and her arms, standing in trembling drops upon her shivering skin. She doesn't seem to notice his stare as she brushes the water away with her hands and steps out. She leaves little wet footprints all the way to the fireplace, where she stands with her eyes closed, soaking up the heat.

Her smalls leave nothing to the imagination, wet as she is. His hands ache to cup her waist; he wants to touch her back and pull away those thin barriers, to hold her against him until she shivers and sighs.

All these thoughts and more travel through his feverish mind as he washes up quickly, keeping his back to her. He stands and bends over the tub, scrubbing his fingers through his hair to shake the water from it. He is just straightening when her arms come about his waist, and he can feel the hot press of her fire-warmed body against him. He closes his eyes as the sensation ripples up his back. Her hands play across his stomach, her face pressed between his shoulder blades; he can feel the flex of her belly as she presses closer, the heat of her thighs against his.

He struggles to keep his breathing even as her fingers explore the network of scars on his chest and stomach. He captures her hand as it strays too low, and she stops. "Finn," he whispers, his voice gone hoarse with the effort of self-control.

"Hmm?"

He presses her fingertips to his lips, and he can feel her smile against the skin of his back. "What are you thinking about?"

She presses herself closer, moulding herself to him, and he has to bite the inside of his lip just to stand still. Her hands begin to roam again, and she murmurs, "I was just thinking, this is the first time I've had you all to myself, some place that doesn't have cloth walls. Some place where there's light enough to see by." She runs one finger lightly along an old scar across his back from when some kind of demon in the Brecilian Forest tore a chunk out of his armour. "I've been thinking about this scar. And this one," she says, as she traces the arc over his hip where a hurlock at Ostagar had caught him on the edge of its sword.

She comes around his side, and he watches the way her dark hair spills across her shoulders. He is distracted then by the fact that she must have left her smalls by the fire. Her fingers slide along his skin, tracing the network of scars over his stomach, chest, shoulders. Her hip and thigh press against his as she leans forward, and she stops, her stomach hovering a breath from his, both of them acutely aware of what is now pressed firmly between them.

Her eyes widen in surprise, her lips parting. He sees desire flicker in her eyes, but he waits. Her hand floats up to rest against his cheek, and he closes his eyes, briefly. She stretches up on her toes, turning her face to him, so he kisses her, tangling his hand in her hair, pulling her against him tightly.

He can smell her hair and the delicious scent of her skin, so impossibly soft under his hands. As his hand strokes down her back, she whimpers and presses closer to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He can't help himself, then; he has her, he has her in his arms, soft and warm, with her skin against his. All those sleepless nights, staring at her, thinking of the way her curves could fill his hands, they grip him with desperation, and he groans.

She pulls away, breathless, her eyes filled with wonder. She touches her lips with her fingertips, staring up at him. His own breath is ragged as he speaks again. "Tell me what you want, Finn," he says softly. He smooths her hair back, so he can see her face, hold it in his hands.

"I can't get you out of my head. I want to feel your skin, I want you to touch me, I want to kiss you and for you to pull my hair and never let go of me." She is whispering, all in a rush, by the end, and then covers her mouth with her hand, wide-eyed.

He closes his eyes, his hands slipping down over her shoulders and toward her waist. "I've never done this..."

"I know... neither have I," she says, her breath stuttering with a shiver that rolls up her back where his hands have passed.

"I want it to be right."

She puts her hands to either side of his face, and he looks down at her, her eyes drowning deep. "When you look at me, what do you say to yourself about who I am?"

"You're strong, and brave..." he begins, but she shakes her head.

"That's _what_. I asked for _who_."

"I say to myself, 'there is the woman I love'," he says, and she smiles brilliantly.

"Then, it is right, for my heart cries with longing whenever I think your name, and I cannot bear to be apart from you. I want to be closer, so close we share the same breath." When she kisses him, this time, he doesn't stop her. She slides his underwear over his hips, and he kicks them off when he picks her up and carries her over to the bed.

He does all the things he's been burning to do for months, caressing her silken skin, kissing every inch of it, making her arch her back. She makes tiny little sounds in the back of her throat as he sucks at her breasts. When he slides his fingers into the hair between her legs, she moans, and there is that look, the one he has been waiting for, made so much more beautiful by being on _her_ face.

The tight, wet heat he finds between her thighs makes him twitch, makes him ache with need. She shudders under his hands, too breathless for kissing, so he buries his face in her shoulder and kisses her neck. Her questing hand lands upon him in answer to his own, and he groans again as she wraps her fingers around it. She begins to shake, her hand and her body rocking in time with the movement of his hand, and then he can _smell_ her, and he gets a glimmer of understanding, why the other soldiers would talk about women like food. He wants to _taste_ her, as well.

She whimpers as he pulls away from her, so he revisits her breasts, making her arch for him again. She is half senseless, mewling like a kitten and clutching at the bed. The sight of her so reactive to his touch tugs very hard on his self-control, and there are so many other things he wants to explore. So he wraps his hands around her hips and sucks at her, and she cries out raggedly, her hands immediately clutching his hair.

He runs his hands over her thighs, feeling her flex and shiver. When he groans against her, she cries out again, her nails raking against his scalp. It is when he feels her flex against his tongue that he begins to lose it. He pulls away again, shaking his head, but she is intoxicating, and he cannot get enough. She lays there, panting, her eyes closed, and she reaches for him. Her eyes fly open as her hands come into contact with his skin, and she pulls on him, pulling him down to her, kissing him, writhing against him, her hands everywhere.

He rests himself against her slickness, laying his length against that hot line, and she arches again, rocking her hips and moaning. What she is doing feels so incredible, he doesn't dare move until she begins to lengthen the strokes, trembling ever closer to the edge of an unexplored depth that leaves him aching.

"Alistair," she says, her voice high-pitched and reedy. Her nails dig into his shoulders, and she says his name over and over, begging for something neither of them know. He can feel her hovering on that edge, pushing against him, but she is so small, he wonders if what he has is meant to fit there at all. But that heat, and her beautiful face, and her hands all over his skin, and her thighs flexing against his, he has never felt anything so _right_.

He shifts his weight so he can free a hand; when he runs it over her breast again, she arches automatically, and something within her gives way, and he is suddenly enveloped in wet heat, hotter than he could have imagined, softer than anything he's ever known, and so very, very tight. She throws her head back and screams, drowning out his own startled exclamation.

She shudders and sobs, and with every sob, that heat flexes around him, but she is crying, and he becomes concerned. The way she feels, he is absolutely certain this is where he is supposed to be, so he lays against her, trying not to move much below the waist, and kisses her. Her breathing eases as he returns them to more familiar territory, and she begins to respond again, kissing him back. He runs his hands up her sides, over her breasts, and her back bows upward, pushing her further down onto him.

She screams again, quivering, drowning out his own gasp once more. Looking down the length of their bodies to where he can see himself joined with her, he groans, and slowly leans forward, sliding more deeply within her, until he is buried completely. She moans brokenly, her hips rising of their own accord, and trembles, her breath coming in quick little gasps. He leans back, holding her hips to keep her tightly pressed against him, and she whimpers. He runs his hands over her skin, watching her arch and writhe, watching her face change.

Her legs flex against his back, trapping him against her. He adjusts himself, causing him to move within her, and she flings her head to the side, moaning deeply. So he does it again, sliding forward and backward in that tight sheath, and he is rewarded with that inner flex he felt upon his tongue, which is so much more amazing like this.

She rocks against him as he slowly pulls her onto him again and again, her hips rising and falling with him, her breathing in time to their movements. He gives in to her when she tries to pick up the pace, and soon her moans are becoming more strident, rising in both pitch and volume with each forward stroke.

She flexes around him more and more quickly until, with a shriek, she raises up off of the bed completely, and flings her arms around his shoulders, clinging to him desperately. That inner flex spasms around him so tightly, so strongly, that he cannot contain himself, and he releases, buried deep within her. He moans, more loudly than he means to, crushing her to his chest as her grip becomes weaker.

He is going to fall, he knows he is, so he rolls to the side, taking her with him, and they end up sprawled sideways on the bed, still tangled with each other. She sobs, curling against him, so he kisses her face and holds her close. He feels himself slipping from her, and she moans softly as he pulls away completely. A long time passes while they both catch their breath and cling to each other.

"You know, according to the Chantry, we should've been struck by lighting by now," he muses.

"Alistair," she breathes, when finally she has some to spare. "Alistair, by the Creators," she whispers in his ear, "He couldn't possibly."

"Meaning it was so amazing that the Maker himself would spare me the usual punishment, right? Right? Awww..." he murmurs into her hair and smiles when she nods, pleased that he did right by her. "So, what now?"

She sighs happily, curling against him and hugging him close. "Now, we sleep, and the world could be okay without us for just a few hours."

"And tomorrow?"

"Let it come. I'll kill it dead and stay here with you."


	14. In My Shoes

Alistair and Finn have reached a silent accord, a domestic grace that becomes second nature. She is happy, since the Urn and Eamon's recovery. Ever since their night at Castle Redcliffe, she laughs freely, and loves him without reservation, at last.

Long, dusty miles, to and fro across the length and breadth of Ferelden, eat up an entire season. As winter turns to spring, Alistair finally corners Finn about it one night in camp. "We _need_ to get the help of the dwarves. _Why_ are we avoiding them? We've already been up there once to deliver messages and help Sten. I don't understand why we didn't go in."

Finn pushes a pebble around with the toe of her boot, her eyes sliding away. "We had to get Sten's sword. Something needed to be done about Marjolaine; I was sick of getting ambushed by people who wanted to kill Lel. There were people to defend from Loghain. We had to close down the operation in Denerim that was killing our support base. We couldn't let Flemeth live, and then I required new armour." These are justified, but still excuses that don't explain the fear in her eyes.

He takes her by the shoulders, stepping closer. His voice is firm. "Finn, look at me. No secrets." Her shoulders drop, and she slowly looks up at him.

The horror in her face startles him. "It's where we go to die," she whispers. "Underground, away from the sun, buried under rock, nothing growing above, no contribution to the earth, no living thing to remind anyone of my life," she babbles breathlessly, her words coming faster, the panic rising in her eyes. He takes her face in his hands, rests his forehead against hers. He sees her eyes slide shut as she leans into him. He puts his arm around her waist.

"Shh... No, Finn, it's not our time," he murmurs. "We only have to talk to the king; we're not even _going_ to the Deep Roads. We won't spend more than a day there. You'll still see the sky, Finn, we won't stay, all right?" He kisses her softly as she squeezes her eyes shut tightly, and she nods.

Taking a deep breath, she marshals her composure and nods once, sharply. The next morning they head towards Orzammar.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

A phase turns, and they are climbing the foothills of the Frostbacks.

Camp that night is cold, despite the merrily burning fire.

Zevran offers Finn some stew, but she declines. "I feel sick," she says, pressing her stomach. Wynne looks at Alistair sharply. She pulls him away from the rest of the group and begins to grill him on what he knows about... relationships. Physical ones. _What is she on about?_ And then everything becomes horribly clear.

She must think he's completely stupid. "Maker's breath, woman, I know where babies come from!" he exclaims, louder than he intends, and drops his head in misery as he hears Zevran and Leliana crack up behind him.

Finn kisses him in sympathy when he returns to the fire. She sits on his lap, their cloaks tenting them nicely, and rests her cheek against his shoulder.

Leliana gives Zevran a distrustful look, but she eventually huddles under his cloak, anyway. The way they scrap and spit at each other, Alistair is amused to see how peaceful she looks, once Zevran's arm is around her.

_She's not pregnant. She couldn't be. Can't. Warden's can't. ...Right? _Except there was a time he heard about, once, something about Weisshaupt..._ No. It's just not possible._ He forcibly shoves the idea out of his head.

Morrigan stands next to Sten and complains about how cold it is, until he finally relents and offers to have sex with her. Everyone is stunned silent, including Morrigan, at first, as he goes on. When Sten gets to the part about an iron pry-bar, Alistair hears a tiny snort and looks over to see Lel and Zevran, heads bent together, trying to stifle each others' sniggering.

Morrigan backs away from Sten looking traumatised, and seeks refuge in Wynne's tent. Alistair and Finn retreat soon after that, to leave Sten and Ponka on watch.

It is full dark when they jerk awake, both of the Wardens sitting upright at once, screaming.

"Did you see that?" she demands, her voice strident.

"It saw us!" Alistair says.

"Wait. Do you smell that?" Finn turns her face to the side, the picture of concentration, and then he feels it too.

"Darkspawn." Alistair grabs his sword and leaps out of the tent, Finn hot on his heels.

"Awake, awake!" Finn cries.

"We're not alone!" Alistair shouts at the same time.

Everyone comes spilling out of their beds, the darkspawn already overrunning the camp. He is proud of her grace; he can see her flashing blades, a dancer in the firelight. He smashes down a few creatures attacking Wynne and Morrigan, allowing them to continue casting at range. Zevran seems to be defending Leliana well as she uses her arrows to pin down and incapacitate the swarming horde. Sten wades around, carving a swathe toward the edge of the camp. Shale idly stomps on them, occasionally laughing about it.

Everyone looks around as the last shrieking ghost falls to Zevran's dagger, watching for more danger. There is a flicker of movement at the edge of camp, and Finn suddenly goes rigid. "Not again," she croaks. She staggers forward like a broken marionette.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

His hair is gone, he is twisted and strange, but that profile, that _vallaslin_... "Tamlen?" She reaches out to him, but he flinches away. She can see the scroll of his tattoo over his cheek as he turns his face.

"Finnariel! Don't come near me, stay away!" His voice is strange and growly, half wild. She covers her mouth with both hands, horrified. She can't help it, she follows him.

He cowers away from her, and she touches his shoulder. "Tamlen? Tamlen, look at me, please."

"No! Don't look at me... I'm sick..."

"I know, I know, so am I, we can heal you, we can help you, _lethallin_," she babbles, her heart sinking as she realizes there is nothing they can really do for him.

"The song in my head, it _calls_ to me, he _sings_ to me, I can't stop it..." He clutches his head, and she notices how long and distorted his fingers have become.

"We could have saved you, I could have found you, all this time you were alive and I could have saved you, he wouldn't let me go back, he wouldn't let me, I had to leave you there, and then he broke the mirror... oh, Tamlen... _Abelas... Ma emma lath..._" Her shoulders drop, defeated.

"Don't want to hurt you, _lethallan_... Always loved you... please, stop me..." She sees the shudder go through him, and his eyes change. He shakes, clutching his waist, trying to stay his hand. "I'm so sorry, Finnariel... never wanted this..." He contorts with great pain, and then he rushes her mindlessly. She sets herself, and grants his dying wish. His momentum carries him forward to the hilt of her blade, and he presses against her. His eyes bleed to blue. She kisses his lips as his last breath slips from them.

When he falls, she falls with him, across him. Her hands scrabble across his chest, yanking out the dagger, and she tries to call him back, her palm pressed to his cheek. "No... no..." she sobs. "_Abelas, lethallin, _come back_, ma emma lath_," she whimpers over and over, her voice cracking, as she rocks back and forth.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Alistair follows Finn into the darkness under the trees. He reaches out to her, touches her shoulder, and then he sees the face under her hand, and freezes. She whirls on him, fierce and defiant, and spits a furious stream of Elvish at him. He does not recognize her like this, has no idea what she is saying, but the knife that suddenly appears in her hand speaks volumes, and he backs away, his hands held out. She crumples, the knife falling to the ground in favour of putting that hand over her face, the other still resting against the cheek of the dead elf. Her thumb strokes over and over the tattoo next to his mouth; she doesn't even need to look to know where the curl is.

Alistair hangs his head. He scrubs a hand through his hair restlessly, frustrated that he is unable to comfort her. Not now. Not with Tamlen lying dead on the ground. What was all that up at the temple? If Tamlen was out _here_ being a darkspawn, how could he have been _there_ as a ghost? Alistair crouches down at the fire's edge and pokes it with a stick.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

"Zev, you should go to her," Leliana whispers.

He frowns. "She is Dalish, and I am from Antiva. I will not be as much of a comfort to her as you might think."

She exhales with frustration. "You don't _know_ that."

"Tch." His lip curls, but he ambles off toward the forest. He does not miss the dark look he gets from Alistair as he wanders past the fire. He is careful to circle around the side of her, so she knows he is there before he gets too close. He kneels next to her and regards the body. Straight nose, tree-like tattoo. He wonders what this man must have been like in life, to have Finn so twisted up as this.

Love is a treacherous distraction.

He lets his hand drift into her field of vision before brushing his fingers against her shoulder. She looks up. Such agony. It tugs on him, recognition of the depths of his personal darkness reflected in her eyes, and he brushes his knuckles against her cheek before he really realizes what he is doing. Her face crumples and she leans into his hand, leans into him, and he gathers her into his arms. He pulls her away from the body, out further into the bracken and the darkness. The camp fire recedes to a glimmer, and he finds a comfortable enough spot to sit, between the roots of a tree.

They stay there a long time as she chokes out the story of her life with the Dalish, what happened to Tamlen, all her nightmares, and the encounter at the temple of Andraste. He listens quietly and strokes her hair as she cries out her torture all over his chest.

"Zev," she whispers, her voice having failed her long ago, "I've been unfaithful. I could have done more. I've betrayed him; he was alive, all along, and I was busy letting myself feel something for a shem when I should have been trying to find Tamlen, and bring him out of there. I should have gone into the mirror after him while I had the chance. I should-"

She abruptly cuts off as he closes his mouth over hers. At first, she stiffens, and it seems as though she will pull away from him, but then she collapses against him, melting, responding. After a moment, he pulls back a little, and her eyes flutter open. She gasps, startled, and he smiles. He much prefers this method to a slap when dealing with a hysterical girl.

Before she can utter a word, he says, "You believed him dead, yes?" She nods, mutely. "Could you go after this man?" She shakes her head, no. He wipes some of her tears away with his thumb as he cups her cheek. He has seen this look before. "You feel guilty that you survived, when this fate should have awaited you, as well." She makes a mangled little choking sound, he sees the swift and sudden shock of truth wash across her expression, and he nods his understanding.

"Death happens. Some of us live, and some do not. There is no fate, no hand of a god in this. Death is the only certainty in this life. Do not feel guilty about the pleasures you can wrest from it in the meantime." He runs his fingers through her hair. "You are beautiful. You are strong and ruthless, in all matters save your heart." He taps two fingers against her breast, over her heart, his face serious.

"If you do not harden yourself more, this will be the cause of your own demise. The man has been dead to you for over a year. That his corpse was still walking about as a darkspawn does not make you an inconstant woman; that can only be accomplished by conscious choice."

The hope he sees dawning in her eyes now makes him feel like a bad man. He sighs, taking her face in his hands again. "Finn. Remember who you are. Everyone can see how you and Alistair feel. It is not wrong, because you are both so deliciously innocent and guileless. Take your comfort in him, as you have done."

She stares at him blankly. At first he isn't sure what is going on in her head, but then she says, "What if I decided that I shouldn't have been with a human at all?" He blinks. This is an interesting development. He struggles not to take advantage of it.

He smiles. "That's a very big decision to make so quickly. Are you quite sure that is how you truly feel?" He runs his fingers down her cheek, and she sways toward him again. He firmly squashes the lid down on his libido, trying to be a good friend. Much as it pains him to do so, he leans back, pressing a finger to her lips as she begins to look like she might want to kiss him again, but he doesn't miss the fact that she holds such desire. "Are you no longer so worried about being unfaithful? Will you now break things off with Alistair and suddenly declare your love for me?"

She stops, blinking. He can't help but torture himself with just another small taste. He slides his cheek along hers and nuzzles her neck, just below her ear. She shivers, and he finds himself wishing, with a pang, that he had had a chance to bed her. "There is more to 'love' than a pair of pointed ears, my Warden. I can show you many things, but I cannot give you what you want. Only you can do that, and only then if you truly own the desires of your heart." She looks pained as he draws away, and she leans on her hands on the frozen ground. He rolls to his feet and strolls back to the camp.

He flips a hand at a glowering Alistair. "Tch. If you haven't cause to thank me by morning, I will let you actually do some of those things you are thinking right now. But second watch is over, and I am going to sleep."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Zev is not at all surprised to hear the ties on the back of his tent coming loose, and he smiles. Cold fingers slide under the blanket and across his bare chest, and he hisses. "Are you made of ice?"

Leliana snickers and presses herself against him all at once. He shudders involuntarily, his breath leaving him in a rush, but within a few minutes, she stops shivering, and they are both warmer for it.

"It was brave of you, coming to my tent in the middle of the night, naked as you are. What if I had refused you?" Idly, he twists his fingers through her hair as she scoots closer to him.

"You wouldn't."

He considers making it a point, but in this cold, it would be a hollow victory. Self-interest wins out, and he sighs. "Alas, you are right." He puts his arm over his eyes, as though he is going to sleep, but he can feel the heat of her thighs, and he knows this is not what she has in mind.

Tonight, as he flips her over, and her nails are digging into his bedroll, he closes his eyes and thinks of someone else: someone smaller, more fragile, lips soft as rose petals, tears sweet as wine, hair dark as old oak, eyes the colour of the summer sky. _"What if I decided that I shouldn't have been with a human at all?"_ she whispered in the dark.

"_I can show you many things,"_ he had offered, the scent of her neck, her hair, the curve of her cheek under his hand as he whispered in her ear. He spills himself into Leliana, thinking of a thousand things his Grey Warden could learn, under his patient hands, a thousand ways to make her sigh and quiver for him.

One day, he promises himself. One day, it will be he who ignites her desire, even if only for an hour, and he will take her; he will see her writhe with his name upon her lips, and it will be her idea. One day.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Alistair hates to admit it, but the assassin was right. After a time, Finn drags herself back over to the fire and collapses in his lap, exhausted, without a word. He puts his arms around her as she begins to shake again. She curls up in a little ball, so tiny, and he holds her to his chest until she falls asleep, one slim hand clutching tightly to his shirt collar, the other pressed over his heart.

He's pretty sure he's sussed it. The ghosts of the temple were the souls of Andraste's past, actual personalities bound to the earth by the Maker himself. But the image of Tamlen, it was so real, not because Finn still had a strong connection with him, but because he was the personification of all that Finn remembered of him. He was a ghost of Finn's heart, not the remnants of a soul.

All that advice from "Tamlen"... she was just trying to absolve herself for loving him after losing her husband. Alistair broods for hours.

When dawn begins to lighten the sky, he stirs his aching limbs and shakes Finn's shoulder, gently. She rouses slowly, her eyes reluctant to open, tongue thick in her mouth. "...Alistair?" she murmurs.

He watches her, feeling guarded again. _Will this constant tug-of-war with a dead man never end?_ She reaches up and touches his face. Her eyes hold something akin to wonder. He waits, to see which way this trembling, wild creature will jump next.

"I dreamed I was alone, in the middle of a thick fog, wandering pathless for so long, I fell from exhaustion," she says. "I lay down on the cold ground and wept. When I looked up, the fog had gone, and there were three doors in a vast plain of grey. One was small, arched, and made of ironbark. One was large and imposing, made of weathered wood with iron hinges and a great big brass knocker. The third was smaller, with black hinges and latch, the wood painted with red lacquer. I tried to open the first one, but it was locked. I looked at the third one, but it seemed... false. So I opened the second one, and I saw you. Just now. At first I wasn't sure I was awake." She looks at him a moment. "Am I awake, Alistair?"

He leans down and kisses her, and after half a moment's hesitation, she kisses him back, wrapping her arms around his neck. She stops when he makes a pained sound as her thigh comes to rest against his hip, and she giggles quietly. He groans quietly into her hair. "Do you _want_ to be dreaming?"

She pulls back and looks at him seriously, studying his face. At last, she speaks. "No." She sits up and puts her legs around his waist. "This is real. _We_ are real." She rests her forehead against his, her arms tightening around his neck. "Gods, Alistair, we _have_ to be, I can't take anything else," she whispers. She looks away as her face contorts with grief. "This time we bury _my_ family."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

"_But I promise now, my judge and jurors, my intentions couldn't have been purer. _

_My case is easy to see. _

_I'm not looking for a clearer conscience, peace of mind after what I've been through._

_And before we talk of any repentance - try walking in my shoes._

_You'll stumble in my footsteps..."_

-Depeche Mode, "Walking in my Shoes"


	15. Stone Dawn

Oh, Alistair was wrong, he was _so_ wrong. Orzammar is not proving to be so easy. Just like everywhere else they have been, this place is full of problems that the people just cannot seem to solve on their own. Enter the Grey Wardens.

"At least _our_ ulterior motives are clear," Finn mutters.

"I hate politics," Alistair confides, as they enter the Assembly.

"Too late," Finn whispers.

She holds two scrolls in her hands, doubt writ clear in her eyes. "So... You want me to aid your cause by giving these completely incriminating letters to people, but you can't say where they came from?" Her eyebrow arches. "I may be, as you say, a 'Topsider', but I'm not _stupid_." It is when her lip curls that Alistair knows she has lost her patience. "You can take these f-" Alistair claps a hand over her mouth and smiles desperately, dragging her backward. The scrolls flutter to the floor as she reaches up with both hands to haul on his arm.

"Thank you, thank you, we'll just be going now. I don't think we're really going to be the right people for the job, thank you, goodbye." And the door bangs shut behind them. Then she bites him. He snatches his hand away. She glares at him and opens her mouth to speak, but he is quick to defend himself. "Er... I was just thinking it might be a bad idea to taunt the personal friend of the crown prince?"

Finn deflates, and rubs her forehead. "I do _not_ like being here," she says.

He hugs her. "I know."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Alistair, Harrowmont's champion of the Proving, is drunk. Very drunk. He is standing on the stage of Tapster's tavern, mug in hand, forgetting half the words to his own song. All the dwarves in the room cheer him on, refill his cup, and sing along with him.

He sits down, finally, at the table the companions all share, tries to prop his chin on his hand, and misses. He shakes his head. Wynne stands and pulls on his elbow. "Come on, you're going upstairs now."

He smiles up at her. "You know, you're beautiful in the firelight," he says, and she snorts. Finn helps Wynne drag him upstairs and gets him situated on the bed. Wynne exits and Finn tries to curl up behind him, against his back, hoping that she can pretend everything is okay, but he is like cuddling against a rock. A sweaty, snoring rock. A rock that smells like dwarven beer.

His snoring gets louder, and she groans, rolling to her back and staring up into the darkness. An interminable time passes. The dark is so complete, with no moon, no stars, no sky, all stone, no water, nothing growing... She feels the panic rising again, and she stands up abruptly, pacing back and forth, but there's nothing to break the darkness, and she feels like she's going mad with it. She grabs her breeches and bolts out the door before she's even finished tying the laces.

The hallway, with all its stone, is barely better. There is still quiet conversation downstairs, minstrels tiredly plucking out a few last tunes. She runs down the stairs in her bare feet, emerging into the common room. Only one of her companions remains. Zevran leans back at one of the secluded tables in the back of the room, his boots propped on a bench, hands clasped behind his head and eyes closed, apparently listening to the music.

She pads over to his table. "Hello, my Warden," he says.

She pauses. "How do you do that?"

"Hmm?"

"Your eyes are closed. How did you know it was me?"

"Oh, it is not so hard. Stride too light to be a man, too short to be any of the human women with us, yet too long to be a dwarf. There is also the matter of the rosemary soap you use in your hair." At last, he cracks an eye to look at her, and his eyebrows go up. "What have you been doing? Your hair is everywhere."

She reaches up to touch it and realizes that it is completely full of tangles. She closes her eyes and groans. "It's hopeless!" She slides in next to him and begins to pull the snarls apart with her fingers. "This place, it is full of stone and no life. No air, no sky, no stars, no moon-"

"How would you like to have a drink?" he interrupts, and she looks at him askance. He smiles innocently, but she sees what he is trying to do.

"All the brew here is strange on my tongue. There's no doubt that it is strong, but... I do not care for it."

"Ah, then glad I am that I just so happen to have this bottle of honeyed whiskey. I picked it up at the marketplace in Denerim, the last time we were there." He produces a sizeable flask, and she recognizes the stamp upon it.

She hasn't seen its like in over a year, and her mouth waters at the prospect.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Zevran smiles as Finn raises the cup to her lips for a fifth time. He watches her tongue dart out to catch the last drop on the side of the cup. She licks her finger, where some sloshed over the side when she was pouring, and he has to breathe more slowly. She coughs a little, and he casually reaches out to brush a stray drop from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes widen, and she looks at him like a startled deer.

He smiles slowly and her lips part. He can see the pulse jumping in her neck. He swings his legs under the table, sitting closer to her, shoulder to shoulder. He rests his elbows on the table and reaches out for the bottle, refills their cups. He can hear her breath catch as his arm brushes against hers when he places the cup in front of her again.

She is staring at him, so he turns slightly away from her, and nonchalantly takes another sip of his drink. He hears her swallow, and looks at her out of the corner of his eye. She is putting down the empty cup, looking as though a lemon took her by surprise. "You really should take it a little more slowly, my Warden," he comments mildly. She shakes her head.

"Noooo... It's too tasty. And my belly is warm. That's good," she slurs. Unexpectedly, she leans into him and puts her head on his shoulder, sighing contentedly, so he puts his arm around her, resting his hand on the curve of her hip. "You're like me," she says, tilting her face up. He leans back a bit to look at her and arches an eyebrow.

"Oh? This I have to hear."

Finn reaches up and traces the outside of his ear with one soft finger. He blinks, very slowly. _She has no idea what she does_, he has to remind himself, taking a deep breath. "The ears. And we kill stuff." She nods, as though proud of having made a very wise observation. He chuckles under his breath.

"I suspect that is where our similarities may end."

She shakes her head, an emphatic denial. "No, no, it's not, 'cause..." she counts on her fingers, "One, you like the same whiskey I do. Two, we both use two blades. Very important, best way to fight. C, you know about poisons. Five... Hang on..." She looks at her fingers carefully, as though they are deliberately trying to trick her. She slumps back, resting her head against his shoulder once more. "I forget." She pauses, looking troubled, staring at the ceiling. "No, wait, I remember. You're my brother." She regards him seriously.

He raises his eyebrows. "Oho, I am? This is quite a revelation."

She smiles brilliantly and puts her hand to his cheek. "We fight. Warriors, we are, both. And you are my brother, because of shoulder-to-shoulder and blades together at fighting." She blinks, obviously having confused herself, but he understands what she is getting at.

"We watch each others' backs," he supplies, and she points at him.

"Yes. That. Exactly." She smiles, obviously satisfied with this arrangement, and scoots closer to him until her thigh rests along his. She nestles her face into the hollow of his shoulder, and he exhales, steeling himself with another sip from his cup. He can feel her breath on his throat. She hums happily. Then she says, in a sing-song voice, "You smell good."

He closes his eyes briefly. Maddening. "Oh?" She nods, leaning closer, turning her lips to his neck. He leans away, trying to catch her eyes. She looks up, surfacing from whatever dream she has been having, and focuses on him. Her eyes are so blue, so impossibly blue, and he hesitates.

She stretches up, suddenly, and kisses him artlessly, full on the mouth. One of her hands snakes itself into his hair, the other arm she flings about his neck. He can feel her breasts against his chest, the curve of her thigh against his, the roundness of her hip under his hand. _So, she wants me to kiss her, does she?_ He sets his cup down and strokes the side of her face, leaning over her and kissing her thoroughly, until she whimpers from it and begins to shake.

_Oh, it would be so easy, right now, it would be cheating._ He pulls back, breaking the kiss, and runs his thumb over her lips. Her eyes slowly flutter open, and he meets her gaze. She blushes so prettily for him, and he smiles. "You should go to bed, Warden," he murmurs, and her eyes widen.

She gasps and suddenly sits up straight, regarding him dubiously. "It's still dark in there," she pouts.

"Hmm... Then allow me to be your escort, and I shall light a candle for you." He stands, tucking the flask away in his belt, and offers her his hand. She takes it, swaying heavily against him when she regains her feet. He half-carries her back upstairs. She fumbles with her key and drops it twice, giggling. At last, he takes it from her. "Tch. It's very slippery, yes? Let me try to keep hold of it."

The lock clicks quietly, and he pushes the door open for her when she begins to tug on it. They are greeted by a very loud snore, and Finn hesitates. "It's so loud," she whispers, looking horrified. He coughs quietly, trying to stifle a laugh. She turns to him suddenly. "Can't I sleep in there with you? You don't snore," she begs.

He briefly bows his head and bites his lower lip before turning back to face her. _Oh, it is her idea, but she is drunk. It would not truly count, and will be more trouble than it's worth._ "You cannot do that, my Warden. What will Alistair think in the morning, when he discovers you in my bed, hmm?" The scandalized innocence on her face is endearing. He steers her into the room, fetches a candle, and lights it by the torch in the hallway. Setting it into a lamp for her, he turns to go, but she catches his hand.

He stops, waiting. "Zev," she whispers urgently, and he looks over his shoulder at her. Her eyes are filling with fear again.

He crouches down next to the bed and kisses her fingertips. "Shh... _Niente panico. È bene._ Tch." He shakes his head, knowing the liquor has affected him, too, by the confused look she gives him as he slips back into Antivan. "Everything is all right. Don't panic, yes? You have light, and someone here to protect you." He gently disentangles his hands and backs away, slides around the door and closes it behind him.

He puts his back to the stone wall and rests his head against it. He wipes his face with his hands. _"It's a dangerous game you play..." _He snorts. When he returns to his room, he finds Leliana in his bed, again.

He blows out the candle, his lips still burning from one forbidden, honeyed kiss. _One day_, he thinks, as he bends the bard over the side of the bed. The scent of rosemary lingers upon his shoulder.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Finn stands at the edge of the Deep Roads, staring into that black tunnel. Into the rock. Into the stone. Underground even further, into the place where Wardens go to die. "Tell me again why I'm doing this," she hisses.

Alistair puts his hand on her shoulder. "The treaties, Finn. Just think of the goal. We can do this," he murmurs. She nods, taking a deep breath, and strides forward.

The guard stop her. "Nope. We got orders. The Grey Wardens and two others, it says." He hands her a paper. Finn scans it, but cannot read the Dwarven script. She sighs, turning back to her companions, looking them over thoughtfully.

"I don't feel very safe without all of you at our backs," she confides, and is rewarded with smiles and nods. "Er... is there anyone who wants to volunteer to stay behind?" Leliana and Wynne both opt out. "Ponka, my fearsome friend, you must stay here, too. I cannot trust anyone else to guard Wynne and Leliana as bravely as I know you can." He barks once, pleased, and backs up to stand next to Wynne. She is looking between Shale, Morrigan, Zevran, and Sten, when a very bad-smelling dwarf comes up to her.

"Hey! You aren't going in there without me. Branka's my wife. I've been trying to get them to let me go into the Deep Roads after her for months." The stubborn set of his jaw tells her that there's no sense in arguing, so she sighs and nods.

"But that leaves me with just one choice amongst four of you." She rubs her lip. "Well... between the three of us, we have warriors covered. So... unfortunately, that eliminates everyone else except Morrigan." Sten glowers at her, and she spreads her hands, helplessly. "I'm sorry, Sten. I would take you with me, but I can only take four, and Oghren is going to follow whether I like it or not, otherwise you would be in his place. Please, look after everyone for me."

Before she can change her mind, Finn turns quickly and enters the unknown depths of the abyss.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Finn closes down completely in that dark realm. She fights mechanically and trudges on without a word. Without the sun, the sky, the moon and stars, days are measured by cycles of waking and sleeping. On the second day, Finn realizes they have been going in circles for an hour or more. "All the passages look the same to me," she says, her voice flat and emotionless. After that, Oghren takes the lead.

Finn is nearly unrecognisable. Every night, the nightmares that Alistair can no longer save her from in this hopeless pit. It takes them nearly a week to fight their way down to Aeducan Thaig, and a few days more to clear it out.

Finn stands in the middle of the shattered city square, her blades down to her sides, staring around at all the empty houses. "There's nothing here," she says, the first time she has spoken in days. She is covered in grit and filth, sweat and blood, ash and soot from the rivers of fire. All their faces have long since blackened. She starts walking, and doesn't stop until she falls from exhaustion.

It only takes them three days to get back to Orzammar.

Even clean, Finn is silent as the stone itself. She sits in Tapster's, staring at the cup in front of her, eyes remote. She barely notices those who speak to her, and eventually, she simply rises and leaves the room. Alistair watches her go, agonized. She will not speak to him. When he hugs her, she simply stands still, and when he kisses her, she does not respond.

He thinks of the day he asked her about coming here, how he had promised her she would see the sky. And now they are trapped down here, entombed in stone. He drops his head into his hands in despair.

:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

The next day they gather in the taproom again. Finn does not sit, and is already dressed. "Sten. Oghren. Morrigan," she says, and turns to leave. Alistair grabs her hand.

"Wait, no, I'm going with you, aren't I?" She's _never_ left him behind. He realizes with a start that her eyes have turned nearly grey. She regards him impassively.

"Oghren leads the way. Morrigan has magic. I promised Sten he would kill some darkspawn. I will return after we have found Caridin's Cross."

And that's it. She walks away from him, and out the door. He stands there, speechless, his heart heavy and splintered.

:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

When Finn returns, she is a frightening spectre. She appears in Tapster's again, covered in layers of grime and gore, stinking of darkspawn and sulphur. She meets no one's eyes, and disappears into the recesses of the inn to clean up, the others following.

At the meal, she picks at her food, leaving most of it untouched. The other companions laugh and tell stories, and Finn sits with bowed head. All are concerned for her, but none are able to break her silence. At last, she rises and walks away, up the stairs. Everyone's eyes follow her, and, after a moment, so does Alistair.

He finds her standing motionless in front of the door to the room they had been sharing, staring at the lock. Alistair comes up beside her and brushes her fingers with his own. "Finn," he says, and she looks up at him. Her gaze is still so remote, her expression so hard, but a single tear slips down her cheek. She looks down at his hand, then pulls something out of her pouch. She turns his hand over in hers, palm up, and places a ring in it.

"For strength," she says, "Tomorrow." She looks up at him, and for just a second, there is a flicker of something essentially _Finn_ behind her eyes, and then they go flat again. She turns away and opens the door, enters the room, but she doesn't close it. He slips the ring into his pocket and follows her, pushing the door shut behind him.

She is standing in the middle of the room, looking at the bed as though she has never seen one before. Alistair stands next to her. "What are you thinking about?"

Her hands being to shake. "It's soft."

"Yes..." he replies, cautiously.

Her mouth twists and she bursts into tears, covering her face with both hands. He touches her shoulder and she falls into him. Part of him is relieved that, at last, she is showing some emotion, any emotion, but he is also gravely concerned. Her state of mind has always been so fragile...

He puts his arms around her, holds her tightly until her shaking subsides. She catches her breath, pressing a hand to her chest, and backs away as though if she were to remain in contact with him, he might burn her.

"Oh, oh no, I can't. I can't do this now. I can't. Not when I have to go back in there tomorrow."

"Maker, Finn, you haven't let me anywhere near you since we went down there. You won't even talk to me." He takes her by the shoulders, shakes her gently. "We're in this _together_. Family, remember?"

She closes her eyes, looking as though she is in great pain. Then, she steps forward quickly and kisses him passionately. He pulls her into him, crushing her against his chest, and she whimpers. Within moments, she is tearing at his clothing, and most of the buttons pop off of his shirt.

He growls and grabs the waist of her breeches, tugging them down and hampering her legs. She is keening with need as her hands roam hungrily over the exposed skin of his chest. He leans down and nibbles at her neck and shoulder, making her writhe against him. He pulls her shirt up and off over her head, and she makes a small, frustrated sound as she is forced to let of of him momentarily.

Before her hands clear the sleeves, he twists the cloth around her wrists, and pulls them down behind her neck. She gasps, baring her teeth, and snaps at him, but he catches her mouth with his own and advances on her, forcing her to back up toward the bed. Every other step, she tries to resist and he pushes her forward with his hip, making her whimper every time.

He kicks his boots off along the way, his free hand fumbling with the ties of her vest. As her breasts pop free, he groans and closes his mouth over a nipple. She cries out and arches toward him, and he wraps his arm around her to keep her from overbalancing. He bears her down to the bed, kneeling above her. With his free hand, he undresses her, and then himself, while he covers her in kisses, tasting her ravenously.

Soon, she begins to beg, saying, "Please, please," over and over. He lets her go on for a few moments, then slowly slides his hand down between her legs. Her reaction is like lightning, and he is amazed again at the way she responds to his touch. When he hears the hitch in her voice that signals her rising tide, he stops, and her hips drop back to the bed. She is frantic, nearly hysterical, and he smiles. He lets go of the shirt binding her hands, and backs away quickly.

She struggles wildly, freeing herself from the constricting cloth, and scrambles to her hands and knees. She pounces upon him, and she is all curves and muscle, warm breath and teeth, soft skin and, _Maker_, sharp claws. He groans as she bears down on him, shoving him inside her with enough force to make him stagger with the suddenness of her heat. He stumbles about as she writhes and bucks, finally colliding with the wall and pressing her back to it; he braces himself with his hands, letting her take the lead. After a time, she is forced to slow down as her arms and legs begin to tremble with the effort, and she whimpers her frustration.

He cups her hips in his hands and pulls her into him, holding tightly to this wild creature, his proud and untameable Dalish Warden. She tightens her arms around his neck, crying out in rhythm to his movements. Her voice, the flex of her thighs, her hand tugging his hair, her nails in his back, and then she bites the side of his neck, and he is lost. A moment later she arches against him, her voice gone ragged, crying out his name.

He sinks to his knees, both of them quaking in the aftermath, and she clings to him, resting her face in the hollow of his shoulder. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I should never have left without you. Oh, Alistair, I'm so sorry..." she breathes, and he holds her closer as she trembles, running his fingers through her hair.

"Shh... shh, it's okay, you're forgiven. It's okay, Finn, I love you, it's okay... _Maker_, don't worry about it, honestly," he murmurs in her ear, until she finally sniffles to a halt. He struggles to his feet and moves over to the bed with her; when they lie down, he finally slips from her, and they both sigh with disappointment. She curls against him and snuggles into his shoulder, laying her hand over his heart; she sighs happily and falls asleep within moments.

He kisses her forehead and looks at this fearsome, beautiful woman curled against him, sleeping like a kitten. "Maker's breath, I'm a lucky man," he whispers.


	16. Close to Me

Finn is leaving again. Before she can say anything, Alistair stands up, and so does Oghren. She looks at Morrigan, but the witch crosses her arms over her breasts, a hard set to her mouth. "Oh, no. If you think I'm following you back down into that hole again, you are sadly mistaken."

Finn looks sad, but nods. "I understand. You need time to rest after the incident with the ballista, I know." She bites her lip. "Wynne... Can I have a bag of poultices and kits, please?"

Wynne shakes her head in negation. "No. I'm coming with you," she says, standing. Finn's eyes widen, and, for a moment, it seems as though she will argue with the healer, but then she simply nods. "All right, then. We're going to Ortan Thaig, and then pressing on," she says over her shoulder, as the party moves toward the door. "We're running out of time."

"Maker preserve you!" Leliana calls. Alistair waves a hand, but does not turn, and the door swings shut behind them. Silence reigns for several moments, then the dwarves assembled in the room raise a mug and a cheer for the Grey Wardens and begin to speculate as to how long it will take for them to return this time.

Morrigan picks listlessly at her food, and Leliana notices that the witch looks a little sick. "Are you alright?"

Morrigan glances at her sideways and sighs. "I believe so, however, the ballista bolt took me straight through the stomach and pinned me to a wall. I was already weakened by the sheer number of darkspawn mages that were gathered there, and I simply..." she waves her fingers through the air, mimicking a fall, as of rain, "..._lost_ too much. I am fortunate that Finn had packed so many kits; she kept me alive long enough for my magic to replenish, but I am no healer. There is a great deal left for my body to repair on its own."

"Could you not simply take another poultice?" Leliana asks.

"Alas, a poultice does not cure simple weakness. Everything is technically back the way it is meant to be, but the bonds are tenuous." She drops her spoon back into the thin porridge she has been toying with. "I must go lie down. I feel ill." She stands and takes a couple of steps before faltering, and swaying heavily. She leans against the wall and rests her forehead against the stone.

Leliana pokes Sten. He looks at her, and she points to Morrigan. His frown deepens, but he stands and assists Morrigan. At first she will only take his arm, insisting that she is perfectly capable of walking on her own, but her knees keep giving out, and Sten becomes frustrated at their slow progress, so he simply stoops down and picks her up. Her protests become more adamant, but she does not struggle, and he does not put her down.

Leliana can hear her griping all the way up the stairs, until the slamming of a door suddenly cuts her off. She snickers into the back of her hand and reaches for her cup. She turns back to Zev and suddenly catches a very calculating look in his eye. A look that he was directing at her not a moment before. But now he is all smiles and ease, leaning back, practising his smouldering eyes on her, and it suddenly no longer works.

She is out of patience. If she's going to try to tangle with him, she knows she'll have to get him out of his clothes first. He uses fabric like a weapon, but naked, she stands a chance.

So she puts on her own mask. She smiles and arches her eyebrow at him, idly drawing a little circle on the table with her forefinger. Looking down coyly, she drops her shoulders, leaning forward, showing off her assets to their greatest advantage.

"We seem to find ourselves with some time on our hands," she says, her voice low and silky. She bites her bottom lip and looks up at him, smiling invitingly.

She lets him chase her up to the room, lets him strip her down to her panties, but she waits until she gets him naked. They are standing at the end of the bed, and she is kissing him, her hand against his cheek on one side and the other wrapped in his hair. His hands are busy trying to pull her panties off her bottom when she casually hooks her leg over his hip, leaning in.

He isn't ready for it, not this time; it's been too long since she put up any kind of fight, and that's what she has been counting on. She sweeps his feet out from under him and has him on his back on the rug in a hot second. He is laughing at first, but then he sees the serious look on her face and realizes she's got him pinned pretty well. He relaxes and smiles slowly. "So, you wish to play at dominance and submission."

She frowns. "No." Her voice is very emphatic. "You've been toying with me."

He blinks, but does not answer.

She searches his face, then sits back, crossing her arms over her breasts. "Are you in love with her?"

He blinks again. "Love?" He crosses his arms behind his head. "Ah, now I am curious. With whom would I form such an attachment?"

Her lip curls, and she thumps her fist down on his sternum, not _quite_ hard enough to hurt. "Finn."

"Why would you think-" he begins, but she interrupts him.

Her voice is a low growl. "You come to me smelling of rosemary, and on those nights, though it is my bed you come to, you will not look me in the eye. Did you suppose I would not notice?" She narrows her eyes as he maintains his silence. "I told you: this is a dangerous game you play. It is dangerous because you play it with _me_."

At last, he shrugs, looking annoyed. "Tch. What would you have of me?"

She bites her lip, the fierceness within her wavering for the barest of moments. "I was not traumatised by the cliff giving way, and in need of comfort. I had not reached a breaking point in my ability to contain my desire. It wasn't because I simply required the company of a man. I let you into my bed because I wanted _you_ to be there." She stands up, arms still crossed, and moves away from him. "I am here, now, because I want to be _here_. Do you?" She watches him as he sits up, resting his elbows on his knees, totally unselfconscious.

"I am not in the habit of getting undressed in places I do not wish to be."

He stands, retrieves his pants, tosses her his tunic when hers proves difficult to locate. He leans against the wall, arms crossed. "Zev... Don't be with me if you don't want me. It's cheap. If you _want_ someone else, go _somewhere_ else. Don't- Don't come to me with another's desire on your lips." She lifts her chin just a fraction to keep her mask in place.

His lip curls. "I see. You are attempting to convince me of your purity again, yes?" he says, spitefully.

She stares down at his toes, but she feels like she's going to catch fire with the force of the ire that is beginning to rise. She works very hard to keep her voice level, but she can't exactly look at him. "Did you think that you could have been just _anyone_, and I would have let you into my bed?"

"The nature of the bargain-" She slaps him hard enough to turn his face, and he looks momentarily surprised, but he darkens quickly as he turns back to look at her again. He is a whole new animal, but, then again, so is she.

"The terms of that bet came good for _one_. _Night._ O_nly_. You even gave me the option to back out. It was conscious _choice_, not guilt or debt; it always has been, and you know it. I can see it in your eyes. You can't lie to me; I can take away your mask." She snaps her fingers.

He bares his teeth in a condescending sneer. "Ah, _coniglietta_, but do you know which one is the mask?"

She shows her own teeth. "I'm certain of it," she snarls.

"Come then," he says, beckoning her with both hands, his expression as though inviting a physical fight. "Take it from me, little rabbit."

"I hate you," she growls.

He laughs mirthlessly. "No, you don't. You want me; you said so yourself."

"You cannot _use_ me like a common _whore,_" she spits. He catches her wrist before her hand connects with his cheek again. She struggles, and he catches the other one, too.

"Tch. Still too slow."

"I got you the first time," she hisses.

"I let you," he growls.

They stand there like that, frozen, faces full of fury. Then he stretches her arms out to the sides, quickly pulling them up behind her back so that she is pressed against his chest. One swift second passes, where her breathing quickens, and she has just enough time to curse her traitorous heart. Then he drops his sneer and they kiss, angry and passionate.

He drops her wrists in favour of grabbing her by the hair with one hand while ripping the side of her panties with the other. They grapple with each others' wrists, trying to gain control of the others' hands. The broken scrap of cloth falls to the floor as he advances on her, forcing her backwards toward the bed. She snarls and pushes back, biting his lip. He growls at her and grabs for her jaw, but she dodges to the side and bites his shoulder.

"_Ah!_ You little minx! Why do you bite and scratch, hm?" He gets hold of her hand when she gets her fingers around one of his braids.

"You lied to me!"

"Oh, I have? Tell me: what did I say to you that was not the truth?"

"It isn't what you've said, but what you've done!"

He narrows his eyes, studying her carefully. "Is this _jealousy_?" He leans back, looking thoughtful, and cocks his head to the side. "Have you caught me with another woman?"

"You smell like rosemary!" She stops struggling, realizing with surprise that she has to swallow hard not to cry.

His voice softens. "Tch. And what am I to do when the Warden throws herself into my arms, hm? I must be her friend when she cries."

"You're taking advantage of both her and me."

"I returned her to Alistair the night she got drunk, kissed me, and asked me to take her to my bed," he counters, his voice gone cool.

Leliana blinks. "You- Sh- She what?"

"Oh, yes." He smirks. "Of course, a devastatingly handsome and treacherous rogue such as myself couldn't help but exploit her inevitable attraction to the dangerous and experienced, yes? You, perhaps, believe I have no restraint?" He lets go of her completely, taking a step back. "And yet, I find I have developed a curious, and apparently hazardous, habit of choosing the same pillow every night since Denerim."

He folds his arms over his chest and looks at her. She sits down on the edge of the bed and drops her face into her hands. Her eyes are burning.

"Tell me, have you ever had cause to say, 'Zevran has been unkind to me'?" She shakes her head.

"I'm sorry, Zev," she murmurs, muffled by her hands. He stands there a moment, then he is lifting her chin to look her in the eye.

His brows knot, and he frowns. "What is this?" She squeezes her eyes shut and turns her face to the side. "No... Can it be?" he whispers. He crouches down before her and brushes the hair away, where she is hiding behind it. "_Guardami, coniglietta_," he murmurs urgently, his fingertips under her chin encouraging her to turn back to him.

She knows her heart is standing naked in her eyes, and she is choking on it. He is going to see it, lose respect for her, and leave. Reluctantly, she opens her eyes, breaking the dam; two accursed, mutinous tears tumble down her cheeks. She slowly looks up to meet his gaze. His eyebrows go up and he starts back a bit.

"Such tears, for me. This is a first," he says. She chokes on a laugh, her eyes sliding away, and wipes at her eye.

"Well, that is irony. I have never cried over a man before."

He is genuinely surprised. "Truly?"

She shakes her head, looking down again. "Why would I? How could it be worth it?" she whispers. Her shoulders hitch and she covers her face with her hands again.

"Ahhh... _Ora è tutto chiaro_," he murmurs. "_This_ is what has happened."

"And now you will leave me for being ridiculous and soft," she says, in despair.

He makes an irritated little sound. "Tch. Ever ready to believe the worst of me, aren't you. I do not know why I let you wound me so." He takes her by the wrists, pulls her hands away, ducking down so that he can see her eyes again. He sighs. "_Vieni qui, pazza che non sei altro,_" he murmurs, pulling her forward into his arms. "_Tremi e piangi per me. Com'__ė__ successo?_" he whispers into her hair.

She sits in his lap, on the floor, and buries her face in his neck. "_Non_ _Io so_," she replies in Antivan, and he starts back again.

"You never told me you speak Antivan."

"Only a little," she says, smiling. "I only know what you said because of a song I learned at-" He takes her jaw in his hand and pulls her face up, kisses her breathless.

"All men are depraved in their minds, _coniglietta_. No more of this jealousy, hm? I am here."

She regards him seriously, takes a deep breath. Her heart pounds with what she is about to say. "Zev... I l-" He covers her mouth with his hand.

He looks pained, slowly sliding his fingers across her lips as he draws his hand away. "I am _here_," he repeats.

She turns and wraps her arms around his neck, kisses him. His arms tighten around her a fraction, but he doesn't exactly respond at first, not until she wraps her thighs around his waist. She whimpers as he tugs the tunic up over her hips. She plunges a hand down between them, pulling the laces of his pants apart again. She wriggles, trying to make enough room to free him, swept away by the swiftly rising intensity of her need.

He grunts as her fingers wrap around him, immediately swelling for her, and she sighs with another rush of desire. She suddenly can't stand it any more, it has to be _now_. She angles him toward her and rolls her hips forward, taking him all at once. He groans, pulling her forward more, and she sobs, the sudden heat bowing her back.

She is nearly frantic, setting a pace so fast he has to brace himself on his arms. He growls for her, his voice full of lust and surprise, watching her. She loses her rhythm at last, as the heat rises, and he falls back, pulling her down on top of him. He takes control of it, slowing her down, and she moans. She clings to him, letting him direct the roll of her hips until she is drowning in him, sobbing helplessly. When the fire bursts within her, it keeps blooming in wave after shuddering wave, until her stomach muscles are tired with it, and her thighs tremble from holding herself up.

He flips them over, rising above her, and she kisses him again, her hips rising to meet his. He hugs her waist with one arm, holding her steady so she can move as she likes, and she burns hotter. She tosses her head to the side, whimpering. He lowers his head to her breast and grazes his teeth against her nipple, through the cloth of the shirt, and the sensation is exquisite, drawing a direct line from there to the place where they are joined. He groans, pulsing thickly within her, and it is enough to send her spiralling upward again, crying out his name. After a time, once they have caught their breath, he rises and fetches a cloth and the water jug.

They both climb into bed clean and naked, and she curls against his side as he lays on his back, arm around her. She can hear his heart beat, still a little too quickly, and she smiles. "Hmm? What is amusing?"

"I'm sorry I doubted you, Zev."

"And this is funny?"

"No, it really isn't. But if this is to be the outcome, perhaps I should do it more often." She giggles.

He smirks. "Tch. You have only to ask for what you want from me. In that regard, you will find me to be a simple man. Remember this, yes?"

She nods. "Forgive me?"

"_S__ì__, ragazza mia_," he responds. She looks up at him, sharply, but he blows out the lamp.


	17. Stone Rose

Finn's journal...

_xxv. _

_Dirt. Heat. Filth._

_This is solid. This is real._

_This comes from a place where the sky is._

_Paper. Leather._

_It breathes. There is wind and stars, somewhere._

_I have to believe that._

_Mustn't think of it._

_Paper and ink, remind me of what is behind and above._

_xxvi._

_Keening with the song, no sleeping, not for either of us._

_It's too close. They bring me to shudder, no longer a feeling but a reaction._

_No escaping it. _

_xxvii._

_The stone just goes on and on._

_Grey upon grey, Wardens of the stone._

_xxviii._

_He didn't let me fall when it screamed through our heads._

_Sometimes when we fight them, I can hear him in my head._

_My brother, my lover, my shield._

_xxix._

_Lost the water. Skin split by claw of a shrieker._

_xxx._

_Alistair got a mouthful of blood from a hurlock. Sick and sicker still. His eyes turned white before the second time he vomited._

_Sleeps now. No water._

_xxxi._

_Lost! Found water in cavern full of drakes._

_Moss for a bed. So thankful. Something green._

_I stared too long._

_xxxii._

_The map is close to useless._

_stone stone stone stone stone_

_xxxiii._

_Broken hinge on my gauntlet. Fell apart._

_I laughed until I cried. I cried until I choked._

_I choked until I woke up again._

_Then I kept going._

_xxxiv._

_I crawled out from underneath all of them_

_Why am I still alive?_

_xxxv._

_He lost so much blood, so pale, nearly blue_

_so many arrows_

_I couldn't lift his shield_

_he can't die_

_I can't carry it by myself_

_xxxvi._

_Home? Where is that?_

_we can't go there_

_it's just a fairy tale_

_xxxvii._

_I can't remember purple any more_

_xxxviii._

_They did it to him again_

_he has to get up_

_or all my strength will die with him_

_Wynne won't let me touch him_

_I sleep in his shield_

_How does he lift it?_

_It's so heavy but he swings it all day, never complains, never falters_

_When I find Branka, I will kill her sand eat her./s_

_by the Creators_

_what am I becoming?_

_xxxix._

_drunken dwarf_

_going in circles again_

_lost half a day_

_day, night, time is meaningless_

_only the stone and the endless night_

_xl._

_I woke up with my head in his hands_

_there was too much blood_

_you almost died, he said_

_which time, I asked_

_he cried_

_I couldn't lift my hand to comfort him_

_xli._

_blade broke off in an ogre_

_stabbed it over and over_

_he pried me off of it_

_it's dead, it's dead, leave it_

_come away, he said_

_away? there is no 'away'_

_there is only 'continue'_

_xlii._

_I was on my hands and knees_

_what happened, I asked_

_you were screaming, he said_

_where was I?_

_the last thing I remember was hours ago_

_xliii._

_no no no sunlight_

_it was a lie_

_there is no such thing_

_xliv._

_how did he carry me?_

_I saw it when we went back_

_a trail of blood, ours, mingled on the stones, a mile long_

_xlv._

_they're tapping in the stone_

_I can hear them_

_xlvi._

_Branka is dead._

_I did not eat her._

_I have a circle of steel_

_paid for with life_

_a circle is hollow, holding nothing_

_xlvii._

_all I remember is fire blooming like a rose_

_my armour burned my skin_

_perfect outlines, she said_

_smelled like roasted meat_

_xlviii._

_never hungry any more_

_he watches me eat_

_in case I don't_

_I will for you, I say_

_xlix._

_the last fight was all in my head_

_there were none there_

_but I could smell them_

_l._

_I remember this place_

_Morrigan fell here_

_it's too quiet_

_can't sleep, can't sleep_

_ambush is waiting_

_li._

_four more days, dwarf says_

_lii._

_I forgot what happened today_

_there is blood on my hands again_

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

The entire Assembly is in awe as Finn strides in, straight out of the Deep Roads. She is covered in filth and ichor, blood and death. "Harrowmont," she says, when pressed. "Chosen by Caridin. He made a crown."

When Bhelen attacks, she cuts him down. Her face never changes. She stands over his body. "His blood is red," she says to Alistair. He frowns and puts his arm around her shoulders. He tried to convince her to clean up before coming here, but she just walked on, apparently unable to comply. Now there is nothing left to do.

"Come away, Finn. We're going back to Tapster's now." She looks up at him. The only time there is a flicker of herself in her eyes is when he can get her to look him in the eye. He takes her hand and she follows after him, silent.

The dwarven maids are scandalized when he takes her back to the baths himself, but one look from him convinces them to stand aside. She just stands there, staring at the wall, while he unbuckles her armour. He has to prod her to get her into the tub, and then she just sits there. He gives up and tends to his own needs for a time. She looks around wildly when he leaves her side, so he starts talking.

He talks continuously. It's much like talking to himself, which he is well-practised at.

He is washing the soap out of her hair and talking absently about an apple tree he fell out of when he was a boy, when she unexpectedly responds. "Apples?" The word sounds like a foreign language on her tongue.

She is still blank when he pulls her to her feet and wraps her in a towel, but when she meets his eyes again, that flicker is stronger. He needs to get her up to their room before she comes awake completely, or she might scare people when she starts screaming. He drapes a sheet over her and hustles her up the back stairs.

She sits at the small table in their room, humming and rocking back and forth. Leliana knocks. "How is she?" she whispers.

Alistair looks over his shoulder. Finn is looking at her fingers, apparently amazed. "No blood," she murmurs.

"She's... been better," he says, slowly, "...but she recognizes me, and she doesn't like it when I try to leave her. I need to lie down for a while; it's been a very long day. But... tell everyone we're leaving. The sooner we can get Finn outside, the faster she will come around." Leliana nods and turns away; he shuts the door.

Finn is beginning to make little panicky noises in the back of her throat, so he crouches down next to her. Slowly, her head turns, and she looks at him. Her face is blank, at first, but then recognition fills her eyes, and she blinks. "Alistair," she breathes, and reaches out for him. He pulls her into his arms, and she clings to him, shaking. "Alistair, where are we?" Her voice is muffled for being buried in his shirt.

"Tapster's, my love. We're going to sleep now." He carries her over to the bed and sets her down, and she falls to her side, curling up in a tight little ball. When he moves away to blow out the lamps, she grabs his hand desperately.

"No, no, not the light, don't kill the light," she whispers, and a tear rolls across her cheek.

He lets her pull him into the bed, curls around her. "Now we can sleep, and, just for a little while, the world can be okay without us," he murmurs. She presses her hand over his heart and sighs, a gesture he has missed in this last, eternal time in the caverns of the dwarves, when they had to sleep in their armour, sometimes standing up. He strokes her hair and presses his lips to her forehead. Her eyes roll up as the lids flutter closed, and she falls asleep, peaceful for the first time in Maker knows how long.

Completely exhausted, Alistair follows her into the Fade.


	18. Flight of the Dalish

_a debt of gratitude to scarylady, my fic-saver._

Finn follows Alistair up the last few steps to the gates of Orzammar. Already, the heat is fading. She can feel _cold_. She slips her hand into his and closes her eyes as the doors open. She is flooded with _air_. _Wind_, the smell of _trees_, the cries of _birds_. She opens her eyes onto the late-afternoon light of the _sun_, slowly turning her gaze up to the _sky_. _Green_, the trees. _White_, the snow. _Blue_, the sky. _Yellow_, the sun.

She walks down the stairs carefully, in a daze, and heads across the market, out the other side, and down the road. The further she goes, the faster her pace. The ground springs beneath her feet; frozen as it is, it's softer than the stone. The trees reach to the sky, the vault above, limitless to the stars. The air stretches on before her without end. She runs.

Alistair curses and takes off after her, and he keeps up with her fairly well, for a time. "Why are we running? Where are you going?" he puffs, beginning to lose ground to her.

"The sky, the ground, the air, _away from Orzammar_!"

"But, we're at camp!" he shouts as she runs past.

"Can't, I can't," she cries, tears whipped away by the wind. She runs straight through and out the other side, never stopping.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Alistair fumes and curses as he unbuckles his armour. He wants to throw it, but he has just enough of a grip on himself to pile it and put it inside his tent. He scrubs his fingers through his hair, pacing in front of the fire, until Morrigan comes back, holding her stomach. She grimaces when she sees Alistair's face. "I could not keep up. She ran on with Leliana and Zevran; they continued east on the trail." She winces and sits down on a rock, falling silent.

He sits across from her, staring into the flames. Leliana returns to camp near dark. Alistair looks up, but she shakes her head, and his lips thin to a hard line. "I'm sorry, she's gone. Zev seemed to be able to keep up with her, but I couldn't last. I don't think she's coming back tonight."

He stands up, but there's nothing he can do. He laces his fingers together behind his head, pacing back and forth a few times. Leliana sits next to Morrigan, who leans over a pile of food, silently dicing things into the stew pot. Sten has been resolutely watching the darkness around the camp, Oghren is already drunk and asleep, and Wynne has retreated to her tent.

He looks at the sky; the sun has gone down, and she didn't come back. She did it again; she left him behind. He stares east until the sky has gone completely black, and then he turns and walks out of the camp, toward the river.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Finn cannot go back, only forward, as far from those fire-filled death-holes as she can, until the stench of brimstone and darkspawn no longer burns her nose. She reaches her stride and soon out-paces Morrigan within a mile of camp; it takes longer to leave Leliana behind, but after two more miles, she, too, must admit defeat and turn back. Zevran runs on silently, to one side of her, and Ponka lopes ahead. She is glad that they are with her, that someone can keep up. She watches the sky turn purple, _purple_, the most beautiful colour she has ever seen. When the last dim rays of light fade from the sky, her legs stop working, and she tumbles to a halt. She lies on the forest floor, trying to catch her breath. They are, far and away, long past the camp.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Alistair sits on the riverbank. Finn is like trying to catch a feral cat. She'll rub against his legs and purr for him, and sometimes she'll let him pet her, but if he tries to hold on to her, she runs. She runs, even when he is simply trying to give her what she asks for. She calls him family, and turns away; she tells him she loves him, and then runs. He is constantly having to catch her, or sit still until she alights upon his knee, and once she has had enough, she scratches him.

He plunges his face into the cold water, but it doesn't help. He takes off his shirt, the chill wind biting into his skin, and covers himself in cold water, washing away the sweat of trying to keep up with her. There _is_ no keeping up with her. She runs hot and cold; she stays and then she goes. He can't be sure of her loyalties, and tonight, that is the worst of it; he doesn't even know if he can trust her. He definitely doesn't trust the _assassin_.

He pulls off his boots and trades breeches for tunic, but he doesn't quite have the masochism to walk out into it; it's cold enough to freeze his toes. He returns to camp cold and wet, and sits, steaming, by the fire, but it can't warm the coldness at the core of him.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Zevran paces back and forth, letting his body cool down, forcibly trying to master his breathing. "You are much faster than I would have believed, my Warden." He takes off his gauntlets and pushes his hair back and away from his face. "We are miles beyond our companions," he says, echoing her thoughts. "We will have to make camp here, and wait for them to catch up in the morning."

Finn nods, takes off her own gauntlets and wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. "You have a tent?"

He laughs. "No. All of that is with Bodhan, at the camp. What I have is a blanket, and a cloak."

She sighs. "I have my cloak." She struggles to sit up, suddenly bone-tired, and pulls the pack off her shoulders. "It is cold."

"Agreed." They look around, and Zev points to a hollow between the roots of a great tree, a little way off the path. She pokes around in it, grabs a fallen branch, and sweeps all the spiders out.

"One cloak down, blanket across." She shrugs. "Warm enough," she says.

He nods. "Provided we do not move too much, I think it will work."

"Ponka," she says, turning to her mabari, "Guard us." He barks once, happy to have a job again. She hugs him around the neck and kisses the top of his big head. "Good boy," she says, and he rubs his nose on her, making her squeal. He grins, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. She wipes her cheek, making a face. He barks again, still grinning, and she sighs, scruffing the fur at the back of his head. "I forgive you." He snorts.

She stands and pulls off her armour, stows it with her pack under one of the roots, inside their chosen hollow. Zevran goes in search of rocks and returns with half a dozen sizeable chunks by the time she's finished. As the chill of the night penetrates her tunic, she begins to shiver and curses in Elvish. He lays his cloak down in the hollow and gestures toward it, as though it was the entry to a fine palace, and she laughs.

She lies down in the hollow, and he pulls the blanket across. She doesn't hear anything at all from outside, but she can see the blanket slowly pulling taut, creating a barrier between her and the sky. She closes her eyes, forcing herself to breathe slowly. "Are you all right?" His voice is muffled by the blanket.

"It's blocking out the stars," she says, her voice tight.

She hears him exhale. "Yes," he responds, slowly. "Take deep breaths. Focus on the scent of the tree," he suggests. She closes her eyes, inhaling slowly through her nose, clinging to the sound of his voice. "Put your hands up above your head and feel the roughness of the bark. Scratch it. It comes away under your fingers." She reaches up with shaking hand and strokes the tree, curls her fingers and pulls. A cold draft washes across her legs and she shivers, breathing in the cold night air.

Zevran crawls in through the small hole made by the corner he's left unfixed, preceded by a pile of armour. Finn scoots over to the side as far as she can to give him enough room to manoeuvre. She tugs the pile of armour up and over herself to the hollow where she stuffed the rest of their gear, and shoves it in. She rolls into the hollow, and they both spend several minutes wrestling with his cloak to straighten it out again. At last, she falls back, out of breath.

"Hmm... Where is _your_ cloak?"

Finn groans. "In my pack." He laughs. "Not funny. It's at the bottom. Hopeless."

"Ah, nothing is ever hopeless, unless you are dead, which we are not, and for this, I am thankful. Stay there; I will pull it out." She can feel the heat of his body as he leans over her and she shudders, a clear memory of the night she kissed him in Tapster's surfacing. She covers her mouth with her fingertips, recalling with sudden clarity how he'd made her completely weak in the knees when he responded to her inexpert, alcohol-fuelled advance.

She hears the sound of cloth sliding along rough surface and, a moment later, her cloak falls across her face with its familiar scent, now mingling with his. As he lies down next to her, she can smell his hair, his skin: almonds and cinnamon, wind and rain, and something else, something dark. More importantly, nothing_ at all_ like the place she just left.

He pauses, and she tries to breathe normally, her mind whirling with her memory and the scent of him. "Thank you," she whispers.

"Hmm? For what?" he murmurs as he spreads the cloak out over both of them.

"Following, shelter," she whispers, "that kiss."

He takes a deep breath. "Oh? Hmmm... I rather thought you would not have remembered it."

She shivers, pulling the cloak up over her shoulder. She blows on her fingertips to warm them, and then tucks them into her armpits. She shivers again. "No."

He laughs in whisper, and she shivers once more, the cold seeping into her bones. "Much colder here."

"We will both be the warmer if you come here and share some of your heat." She hesitates. "Tch. I swear to you I will not ravish you in your sleep," his voice is tired. "Come." He finds her hand and tugs on it, gently. Cautiously, she moves forward, but when she realizes how warm he is, she cannot help it; she falls into his arms, shuddering. He tucks the cloak around them tightly, his arm about her as she lays her cheek in the hollow of his shoulder. She curls against him, wrapping an arm around his waist, and waits for the shaking to pass.

It does not escape her notice that, though he is still taller than her, he is much smaller than Alistair, much more like her lost Tamlen, only not quite as broad of shoulder. She thinks about how different it is, someone around whom she fits more perfectly; it feels far too natural, and she shivers for an entirely different reason. She loses a breath as his hand strays to her hair. "Shh... Do not think such things; you will get us both in trouble, my Warden."

"H- how?"

"Your breath, the press of your thigh, the flex of your fingers," he murmurs sleepily.

Even though he cannot see her, she covers her face with her hand. "Sorry." He chuffs.

"Do not be; it is flattery. However, I am not made of steel, and though I know you to be Alistair's woman, there is only so much I can take of such temptation before I give in to it." He catches her hand and moves it from his waist up to his chest, next to her cheek; he lifts his knee, shifting her thigh back from across his. "So, we will try to sleep, yes?"

_For just a little while, and the world can be okay without us_, she finishes silently, suddenly aching for Alistair. She closes her eyes. "Yes," she whispers.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Alistair closes his eyes, and he can see her: the night in Redcliffe, when she finally gave in to him; the day at the hot spring when she straddled his hips, naked, and asked to share his tent; pressing her hand to his heart and falling asleep on his shoulder; the way she changes when he touches her skin. He scrubs his hands over his face and stares into the fire.

Completely unbidden, an image comes to his mind of the assassin with his hands all over Finn, of her making that face for _him_, and Alistair is abruptly on his feet, pacing. He stops and looks east again. He could make it, right? If he puts on his armour and just goes... miles... through the dark... He looks around at the people in the camp; Morrigan can't go with him, she's still too weak; Leliana had to admit defeat already; Sten would have to stay to watch over the camp because Oghren is sleeping off his drunk again; he couldn't ask Wynne, and Shale... Maybe, but her stomping would be just as likely to attract something as it would be to save him from it.

There's nothing for it; he has to wait for dawn, and he burns with bitterness for it. Leliana hums to herself, dishing up bowls of the stew for everyone. He considers waving her away, but his Warden's stomach won't let him refuse. He sits down, disgusted, and picks at it until his hunger fades. Eventually everyone except him and Leliana bed down for the night. He cannot sit still; he paces, sits, and stands there, staring east, by turns.

"Alistair," Leliana begins, but then stops when he turns to her.

"She's out there, right now, with _him_."

"She's got her mabari, and Zev will defend her if something happens; we'll find them in the morning, safe and sound."

"I'm not worried about whether he will _defend_ her," he growls.

She looks affronted. "He's not going to do anything _else_."

"I don't know that, do I?"

"Well, _I_ do," she insists. "He's- He said it is not that way with him and her."

Alistair snorts. "And yet, he's out there with her right now."

Leliana's eyebrows draw together. "You should be glad of it. There is someone with her if she gets attacked in the night," she says, her voice cooling.

"_Maker_," he swears, a new series of images running through his head. Finn, hanging on for dear life on the side of a cliff; broken on the floor of a cave, still clutched in the dead fist of an ogre; being flung across the courtyard by the dragon of Andraste's temple to land in a shattered heap; lying half dead after the attack that was _led by Zevran_. He growls. Leliana's eyes widen, and she says nothing more, silently turning in at the end of first watch.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

_She climbs over rocks, up to the base of a broken tower made of white stones. She looks out over the valley, the arms of the land reaching out to embrace the sun. A pair of strong, familiar arms encircle her, and she lays her head back against Tamlen's shoulder._

"_It has been so long, lethallin," she murmurs._

"_I know. You've got leaves in your hair," he says, pulling one away. It is suddenly autumn._

"_And the sun on my face," she replies, feeling a pull toward something it seems like she ought to remember. She tips her head to the side, looking at his face. He smiles._

_She turns and kisses him, moulds herself against him, desperately craving his touch. He exclaims wordlessly, startled, but then responds deliciously, swaying toward her. He slides his hands down her ribs and around her hips, pulling her tightly to him in a way they never knew before. "Is this what you want?" he murmurs in her ear. She can feel the heat of his breath and the brush of his lips, the strength in him and the astonishing size of what is pressed against her hip; she shivers with longing._

"_Yes! Oh, gods, please, lethallin; I've waited so long," she sighs, breathlessly. He growls with interest and hooks a hand under her thigh, pulling her leg up and over his hip, pressing her down to the floor. She rolls her hips upward and gasps as the simple movement kindles a fire within her. She suddenly doesn't have enough hands._

_She tugs his tunic up and off, sliding her hands along the bare skin as he leans in to kiss her again. He tangles his hands in her hair and she arches against him, a whimper escaping her. Her tunic has disappeared; the heat and flex of his bare stomach against hers makes her shiver. He is humming with appreciation as he kisses her neck, her collar bone, her shoulder, his hands moving upward to cup her breasts, and she closes her eyes, moaning desperately. "Tamlen," she sighs._

"_No," he replies, his voice tight. He lets go of her, though she remains pressed to him. "Finn." She pauses, her brow furrowed._

"_You never called me that, before." Wait... before what?_

"Finn. Wake up." She opens her eyes, but the night is still dark. A sliver of moonlight penetrates the trees, giving just enough light for shadows. Zevran has his hand over his eyes, looking pained, and she realizes she is sprawled against him... rather _intimately_.

"It was _you_," she breathes.

"_S__ì_. I did not realize you were still asleep."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Half way through second watch, Alistair pulls down his tent and rolls it up, stacking it next to the wagon together with his bedroll, and Finn's. The fringe from a blanket she got amongst her people brushes against his fingers as he puts it down, and he smells rosemary. He leans his forehead against the wagon and presses a hand to his stomach.

He remembers the night before they went into the Brecilian Forest to chase werewolves, when she had turned her face to him in the moonlight, when her eyes had finally focused on the present, and she _saw_ him. It was the first time she had smiled for him. The next night she had begun to smell like rosemary. He remembers because Leliana commented on it; the herb had never meant the same thing to him again.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Finn closes her eyes, intoxicated by the night. Everything smells so strongly, so new. She breathes in; above all the forest, earth, and living things, she is covered in Zev's scent. He is _other:_ outside, away. Nothing about him has anything whatsoever to do with the darkspawn, Orzammar, dwarves, politics, unending stone and fire, or a Grey Warden's duty. He demands nothing from her, requires no promises, favours, services, or assistance. He isn't Dalish, but he _is_ elvish, and that is suddenly very important.

"Perhaps I am still dreaming," she says, slowly.

He groans and laughs at the same time. "Oh, no, my Warden, you will be the death of us, yet."

She puts her head down on his shoulder. "The last thing I did purely for myself was to reclaim my mother's necklace before I left my clan. Everything I have done since then has been for someone else."

"And your Chantry boy?"

"I love him," she says, her voice cracking.

"Is love not selfish?"

She shakes her head. "No," she moans. "It is entirely selfless. I offer up everything to him, every day; I go to the ends of the world for him, I march across the length and breadth of Ferelden, in his name. I am tired of putting other people first. I need a moment of selfishness, just _one thing_ for myself."

"Does he give nothing back?"

She sighs. "He does. He defends me in battle, and he pulls me back from the brink of madness. Yet, these moments of darkness are _caused_ by the crushing duty we share, and sometimes I resent having to come back at all. Just being with him is giving in." Her eyes grow hot, and she tries to swallow the threatening tears.

"He wants me to lead, so I lead, though the wrong decision will bring us all to a wretched, pathetic end. He wants me to save people and raise armies, so I do, though the trail is blazed by a river of my own blood. He wants me to go into the filthy depths of the world to bring order to the dwarven kingdom, _and I go_, though it drags me into misery, delirium, and insanity. He wants me to be his woman, and so I am, though it means leaving behind the last remnant of why I am here in the first place. He wants, and he wants; I give, and I give, until I collapse. And then I get up, and give some more."

He puts his arms around her and strokes her hair. "It is a heavy burden."

"I don't want it anymore," she sobs. "The dragon at the temple of Andraste was a fluffy little kitten compared to the archdemon, and you saw us _crawling_ back to camp that night. Some of us are going to die before this is over."

"That is the natural state of life, my dear Warden. Every moment could be your last, it's just that no one wishes to think of these things. In our line of work, it becomes necessary to admit to them or it is impossible to continue. And we must."

"'Our'? I'm a Warden, not an assa-" she begins, defensively, but then she blinks and she is on her back with one wrist pinned above her head, Zevran leaning over her with his teeth bared, but his other wrist is in her hand. He is stronger than her, though, and is able to press his advantage until he has both of her arms under his control.

He hisses. "You are not a _Crow_, but I have given you _so_ much of our skills. You have killed to make a king, have you not? Tch. Do not plead such disdain; you cannot hide your bloody hands from _me_." He leans closer and his tone becomes very intimate, as though he were speaking words of passion to her. "I would lay sovereigns that you would do it again. We are _killers_, you and I. You are _deadly_, a force of nature; you are so very _fast_, my Warden. Not all of that is my doing, that is your grace. You are a natural," he murmurs, the false passion fading to respect.

Finn swallows, trying to control herself. She is more like Zev than she wants to admit. Much too much like him, and not nearly enough like Alistair as she wants to be.

"You let me teach you how to _dance_," he breathes, "and you are _good_ at it, as good as I am, maybe better."

"You're the only person I know who is as fast as I am," she whispers. "Who else could teach me anything? They couldn't even keep up." They are silent for a handful of heartbeats, staring at each other, and then she arches upward, straining against his pinning hand. He leans back, just far enough that she can only brush his lips with hers, and she whimpers with impatience. He puts his free hand on her belly and pushes her back down.

He puts a knee between her thighs and covers her body with his own; she gasps, arching upward a bit before he pins her completely. He smiles, slowly, and leans in to whisper in her ear. "You've had your moment of weakness. You have cried out your despair over your responsibility, and spent the night away from the rest of our group – your one selfish act."

She closes her eyes, losing a breath, her rebelliousness fading. A punch to the gut would have hurt less.

He nuzzles her neck, inhaling her scent, and she tilts her head to the side, sighing. His lips brush her ear when he says, "I could take you, right now, couldn't I." She shivers, a small whimper escaping her, and he laughs darkly, under his breath. "That would not be fair to your Alistair, however, and you are far too innocent to do such a thing and still be able to look him in the eye tomorrow." She whines in protest, a plea, but he shakes his head. "Tell me I am wrong."

She turns her face toward him again, her cheek pressing against his. "No," she says, almost a sob.

"But you want me to, don't you." She shivers again, and he exhales sharply. "Say it," he demands, the heat of his breath washing against her ear.

"Yes," she whimpers, her voice cracking.

"Tch... I knew it." He pulls back and kisses her, and she moans wantonly. In the next moment, he is lying next to her again. Released, she puts her hands over her face, mortified. He silently hands over her tunic a few minutes later, and she tugs it back on, curls into a little ball on her side. When he touches her shoulder, she rolls into him for the warmth, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Third watch passes too slowly. He puts his armour back on after the moon sets. As soon as the sky begins to pale, he wakes up Leliana. Once the smell of bacon wafts across the camp, everyone else wakes, too. Morrigan crawls out of her hut, grumbling about the early hour, but is silenced mid-sentence by the look on Alistair's face. No one else makes any comment.

He paces, finally growing impatient with how long it takes for everyone to eat and break down, and sets off as soon as there is enough light to see the road.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

The sun is half a finger above the horizon when Finn has finished strapping on her armour. She stands silent for a moment, then picks up her pack and slings it over her shoulder. Zev is lounging by the tree roots, idly munching on a piece of bread. She casts a look at him, over her shoulder, but he does not turn his head. Resolutely, she turns her face west and heads back toward camp.

Somewhere in the middle of the second mile, she freezes, in the middle of the road, when she hears him, the familiar clank of his armour.

Alistair strides up to her, angry as she's ever seen him, and her stomach drops. He is alone, just as she is. He stops right in front of her, that old half-pace, and just looks down at her. "You left me behind again."

Finn's tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth, and for a moment, she can't say anything. "I had to run. You didn't come with me."

He closes his eyes and turns his face to the side, rubbing at his forehead. "I didn't sleep. At all."

She looks down, pushing a pile of dirt around with her toe, and makes a choked little sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "I didn't have a very good night, either." She looks back to his face, turned to the dawn, the sunlight touching his hair with gold, and she can smell the scent of his skin, familiar wind, fire, cedar.

She covers her mouth with her hand, looking up at him, and feels the heavy weight of everything riding on her, once more. But more than that, what she loses when he's not there, is the overwhelming sense of security and _rightness_ that comes with him, the reason he is able to pull her back to herself in the first place.

She steps toward him, but he backs away, turns, and walks down the road.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Zevran brushes the dirt off his cloak as he watches Finn and Alistair pass by, heading east. Several minutes later, the rest of their group comes trudging down the road, grumbling about Alistair getting them up while it was still mostly dark. He falls in beside Leliana.

"You smell like rosemary again," she says, quietly enough not to carry.

His lip curls. "Tch. This again?"

She sighs and shakes her head. "Sorry. Alistair was up all night, all afire with ideas of what could be happening, and woke us before dawn." She rubs at her eyes with the back of her wrist. "What happened?"

He glances at her sidelong. "Orzammar was a bad place for her. She was... off balance. I put her back on her feet."

"How?"

He sighs. "She listens to me because she has become seduced by the idea of me. You know very well how such an entanglement can be used as a means to an end."

She stares at him, nearly tripping over a rock. "You used her emotions against her?"

He growls, truly irritated now. "Tch. I sent her running back to Alistair with a new appreciation for what desire she already holds in her hands."

"But-"

He throws his hands up, turning on her. "What more would you have of me? I ran until sunset just to follow her, guarded her through the night, and listened to her confess her weakness. She spent all of third watch pacing and muttering, and then set off west to find him as soon as dawn lit the sky. A successful venture on my part, yes?"

She stops, tugging his hand, and he wheels, coming to a stop in front of her. "Yes." She steps forward, leaning against him, and kisses him. He is surprised, but he kisses her back, something curiously akin to relief flooding through him. He folds her in his arms as their kiss deepens.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

After a mile or so, Alistair finally stops and turns around. Finn skids to a halt before him, with panic in her eyes. He has to steel himself to maintain his resolve; all he wants to do is take her in his arms.

"What do you need," he says, flatly, deliberately.

"I missed you," she says, her voice small.

His hands twitch, and he forces himself to remain impassive, at least outwardly. "Then why did you _run_?" he demands, trying to keep a rein on his voice. "Why did you sleep away from me, in the arms of the _assassin_, of all people?"

"I didn't! I didn't sleep, not really. I spent half the night pacing, waiting for dawn." She takes off her gauntlets to wipe at her face with her hands. "And he was the only one left by the time I stopped. If he had not kept up, I would have been alone with Ponka. If you had followed, I would have been with you."

"If you had _stopped_, you would have been with me!" he growls.

"I wasn't _trying_ to leave you behind."

"But you _did,_ and you did it on purpose, _again_. You knew I couldn't come with you, you had a choice to stop, and you didn't." He pauses, and she looks to the ground. "Are what you want and what you need the same thing?"

"Isn't it obvious-" she begins, but he cuts her off.

"Yes, you're sodding _obvious_, if even I can see it." She puts her hands over her face. "We can't be to and fro like this. _I_ can't do it. When you figure out what you want, you tell me. _Maker's breath._" He curses, and turns away from her.

"No-no-no, Alistair, no, wait," she says, grabbing his hand. "No, there's no confusion. There's no question. I love you. There is nothing between me and him, there never was, and there never will be, I swear to you. I got outside and I just... lost my mind. It won't happen again." She takes a step closer, coming up against that same old gap again, always trying to reach across a divide they can't seem to erase.

He searches her face. "I love you," he whispers.

"I moved the sky, for _you_," she says.

"And I raise my shield against the incoming tide, for _you_. Do you have any idea how hard it is to live up to your view of me? It's exhausting, Finn, but I protect you because you ask it of me." He's not sure what he said just now that has her so surprised, but it changes something about her.

"I didn't know," she breathes. His brow furrows.

"You've been here the whole time; how could you not?"

She shakes her head. "Fish are not the best authority on water," she says ruefully. "_Abelas_, Alistair, I have been selfish. Please, forgive me?"

This time, when he kisses her, it is an absolution.


	19. Distractions

Denerim. Finn had hoped to never lay eyes on the city again, but of course, it was inevitable. What she is not prepared for, however, is to see the man himself, Loghain MacTir, walking into Eamon's estate as though he owns the place, and in the patent belief that this is entirely as it should be. She forces herself to breathe very slowly, through her nose, as he angers her immediately with his snide dismissal of their actions as tantamount to childish tantrum-throwing.

She lifts her chin and holds her own, but every time one of the shemlen in front of her dismisses her because she's an elf, her rage heightens. When the woman refers to Loghain as her "better", she very nearly snaps, her teeth bared. The only thing that saves all three of them from immediately meeting the sharp edges of her blades is Alistair's hand on her shoulder.

She can _see_ Loghain, lying there on the floor in a pool of his heart's blood; she knows very well what it will feel like when the edge of her knife carves into his sneering, conniving, traitorous, self-righteous _face_. She feels her expression go feral, and she doesn't care. Alistair's grip on her shoulder tightens briefly, and she stays her hand, but, oh, just barely. Her fingers flex at her sides.

"No forgiveness," Eamon says.

"No mercy," Loghain promises; then they are leaving, and Finn is trying to put a lid on her towering rage. She begins pacing, and it doesn't stop. She can't stop. Eamon tells her about all the nobles she will have to contact, shemlen after sneering shemlen, trying to convince them to come around to the side of an _elf_. A "_wild elf_".

Then the Orlesian maid shows up, and she finds herself forced into rescuing the queen from the clutches of the boot-licker. She pauses, her mind racing. If she is imprisoned, then Loghain must not be confident of her position; things might be salvageable.

The dungeon is underground. Alistair squeezes her hand as they head down the ramp, and she takes a shaking breath. The identities of the cells' tenants speak to the depths of depravity the current leaders of Ferelden are engaged in.

She is shocked to find another Warden amongst them. "Riordan," he names himself, gently putting a curled finger under her chin and searching her face intently, before he leaves. Alistair's face hardens at the man's retreating back, and Finn bumps him with her shoulder, putting her arm about his waist for a moment in reassurance.

The only bright spot to the entire endeavour is the moment when she gets to vent some of her fury on the lap-dog of Loghain. "I'll show you sodding _wild_," she screams, echoing Loghain's earlier assessment of her. She remembers how Howe's condescending gaze had settled on her, like she was a piece of filth he had just pried off his boot.

She launches herself at him, daggers raised, whirling like a dancer. Howe has never seen her like, she can tell from the look on his face. She ducks inside his guard and sinks her blade up and behind his ribs, angling to the right toward his heart. She grins savagely at his shocked expression, and gives her knife a sharp twist.

"I deserved more," he gasps, falling backwards to the floor. She holds tightly to the hilt, letting it slip from his body, his blood flooding down his torso in a hot wave.

"I know," she hisses, "but I couldn't get my other dagger up in time."

Finn dresses Anora in a spare set of standard guard armour and heads for the exit, but, of course, things can never be that easy. She feels the woman at her back, the weight of the promise she made not to reveal the queen's presence. She grits her teeth and lays down her daggers, surrendering to the repulsive shemlen woman who had treated her like a child just that morning. She wants to tear the woman's throat out with her teeth, seeing her gloat as she and Alistair are surrounded. She is defiant to the last moment, when the blow comes and the blackness descends.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Finn wakes with stone under her cheek, and stone inches from her eyes. A scream bubbles up out of her throat, and strong hands grab her by the shoulders, turning her around. Alistair's face comes into focus, and the hard edge of her fear is blunted by the fact that, wherever she is, at least he is there, too. "Where are we?" she whispers, trying to crush down her panic. She sits up, realizing that they have been stripped down to their underwear, and wraps her arms around her waist.

"Fort Drakon," he says, his voice weary. He sits with his back against the stone wall, and she curls against his side. He puts his arm around her and kisses the top of her head.

"What happens next?"

"Oh, I'm pretty sure we'll be executed," he says, matter-of-factly. "They've got Riordan, so we're expendable now. Pile that on the fact that everyone knows I'm a royal bastard and you're a scary Dalish assassin, and it makes it pretty convenient for them to do away with us."

"I'm not an assassin," she says, automatically, but she knows it's only technically true.

Alistair snorts. "Tell that to Howe."

She sighs, putting a hand over her face. "I haven't been paid for it, yet; that makes it murder, not assassination." Then, changing the subject, "So, how do we get out of here?"

Alistair lets out a grim laugh. "We don't. No one has ever escaped Fort Drakon."

She looks up at him. "Do you know anyone else who killed a dragon?"

He looks at her, his face changing, considering her carefully. "Nooo," he says, slowly.

"How many people do you suppose have survived an attack by the Crows?" He smiles. "How many shemlen can say they were welcomed, not only into the camps of the Dalish, but also into the arms of one?" she demands, and his smile widens. "Who else would burn down the Fade just to get you out?" she whispers, and he kisses her.

She puts her hands to her hair, but the braids are loose and she can feel the lock pick is missing. "What's your plan?" he murmurs, and she looks over her shoulder at him.

"You're sure we're slated for execution?" He nods. "Then we've got nothing to lose," she says, grinning wickedly. She straddles his hips and leans in close to whisper in his ear. "It's going to be short and brutal, my love, so play along. Now, tell me this place is too filthy and you'll never consent to lay with me here. Be mean."

So he shoves her off of him roughly. "Whore!" he shouts, and she looks genuinely surprised. "We're locked up in a filthy, open cage. You disgust me." He snaps.

She scowls at him. Catching the flicker of movement from the corner of her eye, she notices she's attracted the guard.

She rushes over to the bars, her voice raw with begging. "Oh, ser guard, please, please help me. I can't to go to my death like this. I _have to_ have a man, just one last time, and he won't give it to me." She points an accusing finger in Alistair's direction, agonized. "Please, don't make it be like that; please?" Her hand strays across her collar bone and she licks her lips. "Oh, _ser_," she says, her voice lowering, letting her eyes go unfocussed. She slides a hand down over her stomach, wantonly. "Please," she breathes, pressing against the bars, "I'm positively _aching_ with it."

The guard is exceptionally stupid. He shuts the door behind him, and she comes closer, leaning against his armour and walking her fingers up his chest. She slides her hand around his neck, but then jumps, giving a little squeak of surprise, her face crumpling. "Oooh, your armour pinched me! Can't we can get a little more... intimate?"

She has to let him kiss her to get him to comply, but then he starts unstrapping himself. She continues to play coy, helping him, brushing up against him in strategic locations. When she gets behind him, she gives Alistair a 'hold on and trust me' look, disliking the steel and fire in his eyes. Coming back around, the man growls appreciatively as she runs her fingers down his chest, and she looks up at him, a small smile playing about her lips.

"Human men are just _so tall_," she says, slumping just a little to make herself seem even smaller. She puts her hands on his shoulders and grins playfully. "Catch," she says, and leaps upward. The man automatically puts his hands under her thighs, and she wraps them around his waist, sending up a prayer of thanks for the strength of her hunter's legs. He makes a soft little growling sound of desire, and she lets him kiss her again, until she can get her arms around his neck.

Once she coaxes his tongue into her mouth, she bites down, hard, and tightens her arms in the way that Zev taught her, swallowing his scream. He punches her in the ribs, viciously, with both hands; she feels at least one of them crack, and whimpers. He smashes her up against the door, and she lets out a little scream, almost losing her grip as her broken ribs throw up heavy flares of pain. However, she is battlefield hardened, and he's just a training-yard guard; she rides him down to the ground, choking the life from him. She rises, disgusted, and spits a mouthful of his blood onto his face.

Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she looks to Alistair, who is staring at her, shocked. Her laugh is mirthless, and she realizes with a shiver that it is an echo of Zevran's. "The sweeter the rose, the sharper the thorn," she says.

"I couldn't see a way to help without dislodging you," he says, apologetically, and she shakes her head.

"I know. It's not a hold designed for an assist," she says, rifling through the guard's effects. She comes up with a ring of keys, and grins. "Okay, ser guard," she says, looking at him. "Put your armour back on and escort this prisoner someplace else."

He shakes his head, bemused, and puts on the discarded items from the guard, leaving the man naked in the cell. Together, they roll him to his side as though he were just sleeping. "There's no way to make it look like we haven't escaped," she says, ruefully. "Too bad there wasn't a dark-haired female guard, too." Catching Alistair's look of mixed surprise and horror, she realizes she just spoke of killing a woman, quite casually, so she smirks. "I wasn't serious," she lies.

Finn's idea pays off, perfectly. She dresses in guards' uniform when they find the armoury. With her breasts bound and her helmet on, she looks like a young man; the lines of the face-guard go over her cheekbones and down her nose, effectively hiding her _vallaslin_ rather neatly. Even the captain of the guard is fooled by their appearance; Alistair's training as a soldier pays off beautifully, when they are questioned. They join a patrol and walk right out the front gate. They are assigned to guard an outside door, by themselves, and it doesn't take much to simply walk away, after that.

On the way back to Eamon's estate, they meet Leliana and Zevran coming the opposite way. She looks absolutely shocked, but Zevran gives Finn a considering look. "How did you escape?" she asks, breathlessly, and Alistair looks to Finn.

"She seduced the guard, and then killed him," he says, still surprised by it.

"I learnt from the best," she says, still looking at Zev, and he gives her his crooked smile.

Taking a detour through the alleys to avoid a crowded area, they are ambushed by a band of Crows, and Finn's stomach drops. It's not just one, this time, but six. They're led by a man Zevran knows, and it does Finn's heart good to hear that he was, truly, well-respected amongst his peers; it gives her courage that they might just come out of this alive.

"Come back," Taliesen urges, and Zev looks over at Leliana. "We could fix it; no one would be the wiser."

"Yeah, great. You realize, of course, I'd have to be dead first," Finn says, wearily rubbing her forehead. The knot on the back of her head has begun to ache, and she is abruptly very tired of people trying to kill her today.

Zev steps forward and puts a protective hand on her shoulder.

"No. That's not going to happen," he says, giving the man an opaque look.

Leliana, standing to the other side of Zev, sticks out her chin. "He's _done_ with the Crows; he doesn't need you any longer." Zevran wraps his other arm around Leliana's waist. Taliesen looks between Zevran and the two women he holds, and the man's eyes fill, for just the briefest of moments, with sorrow.

"I'm sorry it had to come to this," Taliesen says, setting himself. The other Crows behind him step forward, posing a daunting front, to Finn's eyes. She sets herself, heart fluttering in her breast, knowing she is about to face a fiercer battle than she has yet known, against people who are specially trained as killers. She watches them with an analytical eye, paying attention to their stance and bearing, their footing and balance, trying to prepare herself.

Immediately, and to her great surprise, she sees them making many of the same mistakes Zev has spent the last year hammering out of her own movements.

"_Watch their eyes. Your opponent always tells you which way they will move because they look; they check to see that the way is clear. It is very hard to train yourself out of it; even amongst the Crows, it is a rare talent."_

Finn raises her daggers, Zevran's long hours of training and advice echoing in her mind. There are five of them. She shifts her weight to her toes, keenly feeling the cobbles beneath her. They circle her, and Alistair puts his back to hers. She hears something ricochet off his shield and is abruptly and wildly angry with these men who have descended upon them at the worst possible moment. They are here, forcing her to waste time on irrelevant problems, when she and her friends have come inches from realizing the goals they have worked so hard toward, all these long months. She feels her face go feral for the third time that day, dropping into a stance that is pure Zev, and the Crows standing across from her pause, for just a fraction of a second.

"_In a fight, anything is a weapon, including yourself. You do not have to have a blade to be armed."_

"_Vir Assan_," she whispers, as two of them step forward. She slinks to the side, pulling the third one, on her flank, into her peripheral vision. The first moves, trying to distract her attention. She feints, allowing the third to come around and behind her again. She watches their eyes as they stalk forward, knowing when the third has begun to strike by the anticipation she can read there. She drops, sweeping her leg out and connecting with the ankles behind her.

"_Always follow through; stopping or changing direction wastes your momentum and you spend too much time recovering. Better to be fast than buried."_

Rolling into the motion, she comes to her feet again between them and sweeps her blades out to either side of her, spinning on her toes. She bats their blades away and lands a strike on each of them, particularly deeply on the third, who is still recovering his balance. The first, now behind her, lands a blow on her shoulder, and it reverberates all the way down to her elbow. She tightens her grip on her blade as the blood washes down over her armour.

"_With many opponents, you must sometimes let one connect in order to drive another to the ground. Know your risks."_

She whirls again, pushing three quick thrusts into the first, dropping him to the ground. The second closes in, and she twists, kicking out savagely toward his stomach. He dances out of the way, but not quite far enough, and her foot connects with his chest. He slashes his dagger across her leg, but only encounters her greave. She takes a blow to the face as the third one snaps his knee up when she tucks to roll into the momentum of her kick, and she is sent sprawling on the stones.

"_You are strongest when you appear to be in a position of weakness. While you are down, they believe themselves to be winning, and will become careless. That is when you strike."_

The two Crows stalk toward her, and she breathes heavily, letting her blades lie loose in her palms. She struggles to her knees, getting her feet under her as they close to striking distance. She crouches, one hand against the cobbles with her dagger under it. Her other hand, on the arm with the cut, dangles between her knees, holding weakly to the hilt of her knife. She snaps her hands upward at the last second, catching the third's blade as it descends toward her face, and driving her other blade straight up into the second Crow's chest, taking him by surprise the same way she did Howe.

"_If you seem to be the greater threat, they will focus on you, and forget your allies. Exploit it."_

No time for twisting the knife, however, for the third is now no longer fooled, and circles her warily. She keeps his eyes on her, putting him between herself and her friends. She bares her teeth, beckoning him to come forward, and he sets himself, his eyebrows drawing down. She hears the creak of a bowstring, and a moment later, the man sprouts an arrow from his throat. He falls to the ground, frozen shock writ forever on his face. She looks up, then, to see Zev crouched over the body of Taliesen.

"She's your protégée," he says, weakly, his eyes rolling to Finn. It isn't a question. Zevran nods and Taliesen smiles, bitterly. "I would recognize that dance anywhere. She has your instincts, your grace."

Zevran returns that same, bitter smile. "You should have stayed in Antiva," he murmurs, as Taliesen bleeds out; he closes the dead man's eyes, and bows his head for a moment. He goes still, a special kind of stillness that Finn recognizes, and she nearly takes a step backward. Oh, so carefully and gently, he reaches forward and tugs a necklace out from under the other Crow's armour. A small, filigreed ring falls into his hand, depended from a silver chain.

He tugs the chain, breaking it, and stares at it for a moment. His voice is low and dangerous. "Let's go," he says, rising to his feet. Leliana bites her lip, worried, but does not approach him.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Finn drags herself to the bedroom she has been occupying. Eamon tries to stop her, but the look she gives him makes him pause, and by the time he's gathered himself again, she's already turned the corner. "_Aneth ara_, cousin," she says to the startled maid who is changing her sheets.

The maid drops a deep curtsey and Finn sighs with irritation. "I'm not your better, cousin, we're both the same here. Just... do your thing," she says, waving a hand.

"Yes, ser; right away, ser." Finn has had it up to the top with being treated like royalty from below and garbage from above, and she snaps.

"No!" She whirls on the girl, trembling. "I am _Finn_. I am _elvish_, the same as you, and the nobles treat me the same way they treat you. Do not speak to me as though I am above you!" The girl has recoiled in fear, and Finn drops her shoulders, putting a hand to her forehead, and softening her voice. "This morning, I was treated as a piece of filth scraped off the bottom of a noble's shoe. I've been locked up, sneered at, spit upon, and now you want to treat me like I'm one of them. Can you see how that would chafe, cousin? Just call me Finn, all right? Talk to me like you talk to your friends and family."

She tosses her gauntlets and helm onto the armour stand in the corner and begins fumbling with the straps on her greaves. Feeling a presence, she looks over her shoulder to see the maid standing nearer, looking much calmer. "Do you want help with the buckles?" she asks, simply, and Finn nods, relieved. It turns out the girl's name is Melliegha, and she prattles on about her sister and the impending baby that she and her family are preparing for.

Finn hangs up her armour as they get each piece off, and slowly feels herself returning to normal. She kicks her boots off last, tossing them in the box at the bottom of the stand. She stretches, now no taller than the girl who has been helping her, and smiles. "Thank you, Melliegha, truly."

The maid smiles back. "I was glad to help. I'm not used to people talking to me like I'm an ordinary person." Finn shakes her head.

"You _are_ an ordinary person. I hate all this bowing and scraping you and all our other cousins have to do. It's demeaning and ridiculous. Listen," she says, pulling her purse out of her pack, "I want you to take this, and make a good life for that little niece or nephew of yours, all right? Don't let your sister work too hard." She presses three coins into the girl's hand, folding her fingers over before she can see that it is sovereigns, and not silvers. "And now, if you could ask someone to bring me a bath, I would love you forever." As the girl turns to leave, she adds, "Oh, and, please, for the love of the Creators, tell them not to bow to me, okay?" Melliegha nods, smiling again, and gives her a little wave.

Finn slumps on the bench at the foot of the bed, feeling the strain of the day's stresses. She rubs at a sore spot on the back of her head where one of Cauthrien's guards struck her with the pommel of his blade to knock her out. It is not long before some servants arrive with buckets, and, as requested, they all greet her as though she were simply someone they knew. She is grateful, and makes sure to find out all of their names. At this rate, the servants of the Guerrins will not only know who she is, but probably throw her a birthday party, as well.

She strips down and is stepping into the bath when the door opens suddenly, a man in full plate filling the doorway. She doesn't stop to think. She bolts for the armour stand, her daggers far too far away, but it is Alistair's voice that stops her. "Finn!"

He kicks the door shut, taking off his helm, and she sighs with relief, though her heart is still hammering. "Take off your helm next time, you brute!" she says, pushing at his pauldron. He hangs his head, ruefully. She drops herself into the bath with an appreciative groan. "Where were you?"

He shakes his head, hanging up his gloves on the empty stand next to hers. "Eamon wanted to push on me again."

Finn growls. "As though we don't have enough to think about at this point. I'll talk to Anora, see if I can get her to do something. Though it burns me up with loathing to admit it, Loghain was right on one, singular point: Ferelden already has a ruler – the Queen. We should push for her to keep the throne." She twists her wet hair up on top of her head

"Sounds like a good plan to me," he murmurs, tugging on a stubborn buckle at the back of his left cuisse. He growls. Finn kneels behind him, dripping a little puddle on the floor as she examines the buckle, finally concluding that it's beyond help and cutting the strap.

Tugging on one of his tunics, she throws herself down on the bed; he grabs a pitcher from the washstand and dumps it over his head, leaning over the bath. "It's been a long day. Tomorrow, we have to go talk with nobles who would rather see me scrubbing their floors than leading their armies, so I'm going to have to be very much on my toes... and without you there... I think I might just fall apart," she concludes, her voice falling. "So, we have to see Wade first thing, because I think we'll need you to be more imposing than I am," she concludes.

He leaves his clothes in an untidy pile next to the tub before he crawls into the bed, wet and naked. He grins wickedly, and Finn's heart flips. She shrieks and giggles as he shakes his head, like a dog might, sprinkling cold drops of water all over her face. "Nooo, no! It's cold!" she protests, holding her hands up in front of her face. He laughs, grabbing her wrists and pinning them to the bed so he can rub his wet hair all over her neck. She squeals, struggling and kicking, but it's no use, he's too strong.

She looks up at him, breathless, when he finally leans back, his face alight with amusement, and her heart flips again. "I love you," she says, helpless with the truth of it.

He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "And I love you," he replies, his face now serious. He kisses her, releasing her hands in favour of pulling her closer. She arches against him, suddenly on fire as all the day's fear and stress crashes down on her. She pounces on him, and he rocks back in surprise as her hands and mouth are suddenly all over him. His startled laughter turns to sighs, the sighs giving way to moans, as she has her way with him. Then he turns the tables on her, pinning her down, and she is soon breathless and thrashing. It is not until later, in the silence of the house, that she realizes she probably announced their love to the entire town, but she can't find it in herself to be concerned about it. For now, they are here, they are alive, and his strong arms are around her, his sleeping breath a reassuring song of vitality in her ear.

She sighs, shifting, and he cracks one eye open, looking at her. "Sleep for a while," he murmurs, and she smiles.

"Hmm," she replies, "The world can be okay without us." He smiles back, kissing her neck. She snuggles down into his arms again, pressing her hand to his chest, and closes her eyes, pretending that the Blight is over, and they are sharing a bed in their own home, safe and warm, with nothing to do but just _be_, tomorrow. A dream is worth a little sleep, she decides, slipping into the Fade.


	20. Old Bones

He sits in a chair by the window, alone at The Pearl, staring out across the rooftops at the little patch of sky he can see from his vantage. The sounds of the house are a comforting background, familiar, ignorable, but the sky is not the same. It is swirled with grey and white, a little pale, timid blue peeking out from behind, sometimes. Nothing like his brilliant Antivan blue. A long lost blue. He turns the little ring over and over in his fingers, mindlessly worrying at it. The broken chain lies forgotten on the floor between his feet.

He hears a board creak, inside the door, and he is immediately in motion. He dives for the shadow by the door, wraps himself around it, and rides it to the floor. It screams as he stands, leaning back, a fistful of hair in his hand, baring a long expanse of white throat. His legs are braced to either side of the face between his thighs, holding the shoulders back, arching the body painfully and making the arms useless with the pain of the racking. He is half a breath from cutting a throat when he looks down and his mind finally registers who is in his hands.

He is frozen with shock. Leliana's eyes are squeezed shut, tears streaking downward across her temples and into her hair. She swallows, her throat flexing against his blade and opens her eyes to look up at him. "Are you going to kill me now, Zev?" she whispers, her voice cracking, and her eyes are so... resigned. Like she always thought it would end this way. He drops the dagger, scrambling backward and away from her, into the shadows in the corner.

She falls to the floor, barely catching herself in time to stop from smacking her mouth on the wood. She pulls her knees up and curls on her side, breathing slowly and rubbing at her shoulders. "I'm sorry. I came in too suddenly."

Lit by the shaft of light that comes through the window, the little ring lies on the floor next to the chair he had been occupying. Leliana picks herself up off the floor and stands, rolling her shoulders. She pads to the bed on quiet feet, and he notes with some distracted pride that she has finally managed to silence her footfalls. She sits on the edge, pulling her pack up from the floor, and begins to rummage through it. After a time, he retrieves his dagger and bends to pick up the ring.

He holds it in his palm; such a tiny thing, to bring such pain. He almost killed Leliana just now over the memories it stirs. "I am sorry, Leliana. I am not myself today; I would never hurt you, you know that." He drags the words forward, spills them into the shaft of light coming in from the window, looking away. "Before I left Antiva, you would not have recognized me, I think. I was among the best that the Crows had to offer, and I knew it. The stories of my conquests preceded me, and I had many, many offers, both as a Crow and as a lover. Most of them, I took. I was arrogant, and full of swagger." She is looking at him, now, he can feel the weight of her gaze. Mercifully, she says nothing.

"My last contract before I came to Ferelden went... horribly awry," he says. "It was a difficult mark: a wealthy merchant with many guards. The contract stipulated complete silence. I knew I could not act alone; there were too many variables. Taliesen was my partner... along with a beautiful elven girl, named..." He takes a breath. He hasn't uttered her name since that night. "...Rinna."

He closes his fist around the ring, the sharp edges of the metal biting into his skin. "She was... fast, smooth, deadly, full of fire, wicked... and beautiful..." His eyes stray out the window, to that patch of grey Ferelden sky.

"You loved her," Leliana says, softly, astonished. He bows his head.

"So did he, I now realize. It was all about _jealousy_. I made it so _easy_ for him..." he murmurs, his mouth twisting. "She had betrayed us, sold our plans to the Merchant, or so he told me. I believed him, because he did not have such a treacherous hold on my heart. Easier to believe in my own weakness than in her loyalty." He closes his eyes, turning his face aside. He can still see her, looking up at him, the blood pooling around her head, the light fading from her eyes. He can hear his own cruel laughter echoing in his ears.

"What happened?"

"He cut her throat," he says, his voice harsh. "And I let him, even as she begged me for her life, confessed her love for me. I laughed in her face, and spat on her as she bled out." He grimaces, shakes his head. "When we finally filled the contract, I found a letter amongst the merchant's possessions. He had an informant, it was true, but it was not Rinna. We were being watched; the Crows knew what we had done before we ever came back with the lie that she had died during our attempt. I was sure we would be punished, but they did not care. They laughed at us; our lives meant nothing. They rubbed it in our faces: we were all _entirely_ expendable."

"You wanted to escape, then; that is why you came to Ferelden, no?"

He laughs, bitterly. "No. I won the bid for the Grey Wardens because no one else would touch it. It was too dangerous, a suicide mission." He looks over his shoulder at her, her wide, green eyes, her hand covering her mouth. "As I said the day you met me, I did not expect to succeed."

For a time, silence reigns. She stares at him, and he can feel how hard his eyes must be. At last, she drops her hand, and says, "Do you still want to die?"

This is not the reaction he was expecting, and he is caught off-guard. "No," he says, at last. "There are things I have found to be worth living for, worth protecting."

Leliana rises from the bed, her eyes locked on his. "Objects?"

"Friendships," he corrects himself.

She comes closer. "People?"

"Mh. One or two, perhaps," he murmurs as she closes the distance; he can smell her hair, feel the heat of her skin as she stands in front of him.

She takes his hand, pulling it upward and uncurling his fingers. She looks down at the little ring, then up at him. "Do you choose the future, or the past?"

"Oh, I have a future?"

"As I said on the day I met you, having you seems like an excellent idea."

He smirks. "Ah, it's true, but you also reconsidered almost immediately."

"That was before I knew you."

"And now?"

She looks down at the ring, then pushes his hand aside so she can move that little bit closer. "Now that you have caught the rabbit, will you simply... release the snare?" She waves her fingers in the air, as though tossing a bit of fluff to a breeze.

He sets his free hand on her hip, and she sways toward him. "And if I did? Would it run?"

She bites her lip, lowering her eyes, but then she shakes her head. "Not any more; I-"

He leans forward quickly and kisses her, before she says something he can't bear to hear, not again. She puts her hands on his shoulders, responding with abandon, but he steps back again, after a moment. She makes a tiny little noise of protest in the back of her throat, and opens her eyes.

"I won't. I won't say it. But you know, don't you?" Her hand slips from his shoulder to his heart, and he closes his eyes, blinking slowly.

"Yes. I know," he murmurs.

"And... Should I think..." she stumbles to a halt, and he bows his head. He covers her hand with his own.

"I am here, _coniglietta mia_."

"I... I know," she whispers.

"Precisely."

Her breath catches. "I do?"

He looks at her then, finally meeting her eyes. _This is not the same; now is not then._ "_S__ì_," he replies, trying to smile, though the whole thing walks the razor's edge of agony. Something within her gives way, and she falls against him, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face in his neck. The smell of her hair, the softness of her curves, the strength in her long legs, the heat of her breath and the press of her lips against his skin... He forgets he has the ring in his hand and gathers her into his arms.

The ring slips between her shoulder and her hair as he puts his hand to the nape of her neck. It rolls down her chest into her cleavage when he kisses her, turning her face up to his. He pulls her forward by the waist, kisses down her neck; she tugs his shirt up and off as they stumble backward toward the bed. The ring slips under her breast when she falls among the pillows and blankets.

He covers her in a blink, making her start and him grin. She arches as he kisses her again, and he uses the opportunity to relieve her of her tunic altogether. He tosses it aside, and the little ring tumbles with the shirt's momentum, crossing the bed to rest in a wrinkle of the tangled blanket, near her hip. They fight with the laces to each others' breeches, and he gets hers undone first. "Tch. Too slow," he admonishes with a wicked grin. She protests weakly as he withdraws, but just smiles as he tugs her pants off to leave them in a heap on the floor, her panties still inside.

He takes her hips in his hands and kisses her stomach, her thighs, and all the sensitive skin in between. Her fingers twine in the blankets, folding the ring further within the cloth. He relents when she begins to beg, and then she is on him like a cat, flipping him over and flattening him to his back. She runs her hands over his chest and across his stomach, grinning wickedly, and he smiles languorously, stroking her thighs.

"Oh, I've got you now," she teases. Quick as a striking snake, he grabs her about the waist with both hands, and she shrieks, arching helplessly and laughing hysterically. She flails wildly, trying to escape, and he laughs at her. The blanket bunches up and ends up at the foot of the bed. The ring peeks out from between two folds, facing the broken chain and the empty chair. Leliana gets the upper hand again when she gets her hands down his pants, behind her hips. He pauses, involuntarily closing his eyes and turning his face to the side.

He looks up at her and licks his lips. She is panting, triumphant, intoxicating in her desire for him, a single-minded loyalty. _I believe her. Maker help me, for I cannot help myself, apparently._

"Ah, now I've got your attention," she says, archly. He raises his hips, and she pushes his pants down and off the bed.

As she returns, crawling upward toward him, she straddles him. He rolls against her sinuously, and she cries out in surprise. He laughs darkly, taking her desire-painted face in his hands and kissing her again; he swallows her wanton cry as he sways his hips upward against hers, rocking her back and forth until she slides all the way down. Her hands shake as she leans back a bit, brushing the hair from her face.

"Zev," she says, but he rolls his hips, making her eyes flutter closed. Soon, he has made her forget whatever it was she wanted to say, and she stops trying to speak. She dances for him, her body swaying above his, tossing her head and lapsing into Orlesian. The bed creaks and shakes, and the little ring falls from its perch, down between the bed and the frame. It comes to rest on one of the big knots in the ropes that hold the mattress up.

He sits up when she falters, taking her into his arms, and rolls her against his hips. She cries out again, and he kisses her throat as she tips her head back for him. The bed rocks in the other direction, and the ring tumbles to the floor, rolls around, and comes to rest in a knothole on one of the floorboards.

He kisses her, swallowing her cries, and she wraps her legs around him more tightly, falling into him with abandon. The bed creaks and sways, and the rhythmic motion of the ropes soon sets the bed to thrumming, the legs quietly shifting and tiptoeing across the floor. The shaking vibrates the floor, and the ring falls to its side in the hole.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Dawn light filters in through the window, spearing her in the eye. She blinks and grumbles, rolling over. He is warm and solid next to her, and she nuzzles her face into his shoulders. He sighs, catches her wrist, and pulls her arm over his waist to kiss her fingers. "Mmh..._ è troppo presto, amora... non svegli..._" he mumbles.

"Mmm... I have no idea what you just said, _mon cher_," she murmurs, kissing his shoulder, "but I suspect that I should tell you we must be out of bed. The Landsmeet is this afternoon."

He groans. "Ferelden nobles."

"Hm," she agrees, rolling to her feet and stretching. "It's worse than that. You have to wear finery as well."

"No," he says, shortly, voice querulous.

She laughs. Turning, she tugs on the sheet, and he reluctantly rolls over, rubbing his face. "Mmh," he grumbles. He pulls back, overbalancing her; she tumbles onto the bed next to him. He laughs, darkly, and she sighs as he slides his hands down her stomach.

It is Zev who ends up rolling out of bed next, stretching, a cat-and-cream smile upon his lips. Leliana lies curled on her side, still catching her breath. "I hate you," she mumbles.

He laughs. "Ah, that is not what you said but a moment ago," he retorts.

She sighs. "I know... but that was before you convinced me that a nap would be preferable to getting up."

"And now I am the one standing, and you are the sloth-a-bed," he teases. "Come, _coniglietta_, we must away; isn't that what you said?"

"Ohh... stop being right," she grumbles, sitting up. She pulls her knees up and smiles at him, admiring the tattoos across his chest. He turns, nonchalantly, as he puts his tunic right-side-out again, and the light falls upon him, showing off his hard stomach and the sinuous line that wraps around his ribs to snake down over his hip and into his breeches. She giggles and clambers off the bed.

She is pulling her own shirt over her head when she hears him muttering to himself behind her. She turns, and finds him scanning the floor intently. "What is it?"

"The ring," he says, pensive. "What happened to it?" She thinks carefully, going over the events of the previous evening in her mind.

"Uh... I remember you had it in your hand, and I pushed your hand aside... and then you kissed me..." She bites her lip. "I don't remember seeing it after that." They both kneel down to look under the bed, and see only each other. She stands, looking around again, and then shrugs, sadly. "I do not see it."

He takes a deep breath and looks out the window, at the sky. Letting it out, slowly, he says, "I suppose it no longer matters. Let's go."

She looks at him a moment, then turns to grab her pack. If he's willing to leave it behind, then so be it. She smiles.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

It is Birget who has the unenviable task of sweeping out the vacated rooms that morning. She goes into the room the travellers had occupied, that strange couple who left for the market speaking of the Landsmeet, like they were somehow going to be in attendance. How two people who spent the last several nights quite happily boarding in a whore house will end up mingling with nobility, she will never understand. _They_ certainly weren't nobles.

She shakes her head, looking around the room. The dirty sheets have been stripped and piled at the foot of the bed, the washstand is clean, the chairs in place. It's the first time she's seen a room be kept before it's vacated. Strange folk.

She sets to work with her broom, pulling the dust from the corners. As she runs her broom over the floor under the bed, she hears a tiny little bell-like sound. Peering below, she sees a little ring, pretty thing, all silver and swirls. She pulls it out and holds it in the palm of her hand. It's tiny, far too small for her own finger, but it would probably fit the elven lass.

On cue, the girl comes in the room with a stack of bedding. "Gina," she says, turning, "Look at this; do you think it will fit you?"

The elven girl holds out her hand, the little filigreed ring dropping into her palm. "Hmm... I think so. It's so pretty." It fits so nicely on her second finger, though it fills her with a strange longing. She smiles at Birget. "Thank you."

Birget shrugs. "Thank the red-head and that Antivan elf," she says.

That would be the one who moves with a cat's grace and has far too many knives hidden away upon his person. Gina looks down at the ring, and shivers. "Hm. No. They might ask for it back."


	21. Feast of Elgar'nan

Finn is truly concerned for her city elf cousins as she crosses the bridge into their shockingly squalid demesne. She is not prepared for the level of hostility she is shown at first, as they accuse her of being "with the shems", but she soon disabuses them of that notion. "Actually, I'm the one in charge, here, and _they're_ with _me_." She finally gets them to open up, and the news of plague concerns her. Wynne, at her back, is not convinced.

"There is very little that healing magic could not assuage," she says, "and I see no evidence of sickness among those who are standing here in the courtyard. If this were truly a plague, not everyone would be healthy, not like this."

Finn nods. "Then, we go in and see if we can help," she says decisively.

"Ah, never mind the front door," Zev murmurs, sliding up to her out of nowhere. "Come, I have found us another way." She follows him through an alley and around the back of some of the buildings, to a small, battered door, completely unremarkable from the others. Finn quickly picks the lock, and they let themselves inside.

Finn's face darkens as she takes in the broken toys, scattered possessions, and, notably, random bloody smears. She stalks through the empty hallways of a place that people should still be calling home. By the time she reaches the outside courtyard, she's ready to shred anything that gets too close, and the scrambling guards stand no chance against her fury.

Zev stands from his crouch over one of their bodies, holding a slightly stained paper up to the light. "Now the plot is revealed. This is a slavery operation, my friend."

Finn snarls, her anger flaring white-hot. "It ends. Now. If anything tries to stop us, kill it." She doesn't bother to wipe her blades, leaving a little trail of blood droplets behind her as she stalks toward the next door. "Elgar'nan, guide my blades," she prays under her breath, and turns the latch.

The surly, dark-haired traitor to the race is the first to fall to Finn's onslaught. This is all Loghain's doing. Another mark on the tally of reasons why that man needs to feel the tender mercy of her Thorn. He crippled the Wardens and the effort against the Blight by forbidding Orlesian support, while selling the elves back into slavery with the Tevinters, the _ultimate_ insult. By the time she finally finds the leader of the slavers, she has reached boiling point. She becomes so incensed at his offensive offer, she loses her grip on the common tongue.

"_Halam __**sahlin**__, shemlen,_" she hisses, glaring at him."_Elvhen uth'revas!_" She shouts, and points at the cages. Then her face goes feral and she levels one of her bloody, dripping blades at him, a grin of anticipation on her face. "_Ar nuvenin na lin,_" she says, a quiet, gleeful threat. Then: "_Vir assan!_" she screams, vaulting over the railing and engaging him head-on.

He desperately casts a snow-field over her friends, but Finn is already lunging for him. The sounds of battle ring in her ears, and she falls into the rhythm, rolling into her swings, following through and increasing her speed. She dances around him, keeping him spinning. His magic is fierce, and difficult, freezing her to the spot more often than she would like, and burning her when she is not fleet enough. She is ragged and bloody at the end, but he is on his knees, begging for his life, and this is exactly as it should be. She holds the point of her blade under his chin.

"Tell me why I should spare you," she demands, each word bitten off and spit through her teeth. He offers her strength in exchange for the blood of her cousins and she laughs at him, grim and mirthless. "A Tevinter offers me the life's blood of Elvhen in exchange for his freedom. _Me_." That feral grin spreads across her face again. "The Dalish have not forgotten, you putrid Tevinter vermin, and we will _never submit_."

She grabs him by the hair and leans in very close, intimate as a lover, looking him straight in the eye, then drives her blade through his throat with terrible and sudden violence. She watches carefully, the moment of shock, then the fading of the light, until finally, his eyes stare into the vast nothing of forever, and she lets his body crumple backward onto the floor.

She stands over him, numb, blades hanging at her sides, and tries to quell the urge to stab him over and over again until her arms tire, until she collapses on the floor. Then Zev is there, checking the man's pockets, and she resigns herself to the fact that it is too late. The hated, vile Tevinter is beyond the reach of the agony he deserves.

Zevran grimaces, sliding a packet out of the mage's inside pocket. He wipes his hands on the man's sleeve, muttering. "Tch. I have blood all over me, again." When his hands are dry, he picks up the packet and opens it, reads through it. Finn just stands there, waiting. At last, he looks up at her. "You have your proof, Finn. This licence was signed by Loghain."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Finn takes a deep breath. Everything is going to be okay. She knocks. "Come," a woman's voice says, so Finn walks in.

"Your Majesty."

"Ah, Finn. I wanted to apologise for how things went with Cauthrien-" Finn waves a hand.

"No, never mind about that. I said I'd get you out without revealing your presence. Nothing could have been done. The headache was no fun, but Fort Drakon was no match for the likes of the Grey Wardens." She smirks, lopsided. "Which actually brings me to why I'm here. I wanted to talk to you about the Landsmeet."

Anora carefully arranges her skirts, busying herself with something trivial while she tries to think of something to say, but Finn doesn't give her the chance. "Look, I've been talking with Alistair, and we have a plan. We're going to support you to remain queen, on your own."

She looks startled. "This is not what I have been hearing from the Arl of Redcliffe. He intends to support your fellow Warden for king."

Finn sighs, rubbing at her forehead. "Ignore him. Eamon doesn't know what he's talking about; he just won't listen to us. So, here I am, going over his head. The _last_ thing Alistair wants is the crown. We are Wardens, and we can_not _rule. Giving up all previous titles and oaths is part of becoming a member of the Order. So, obviously, he couldn't take the throne anyway, even if he _did_ want to. As far as we're concerned, you're queen, and that's as it should be."

Anora nods. "I thank you. I will do everything I can to support your efforts against the Blight. Maker be with you," she says.

Finn nods. "May the Creators watch over you," she replies, then ambles out of the room.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

With so much evidence stacked against him, the Landsmeet votes entirely in favour of the Wardens. Finn is not expecting what happens next, that Loghain challenges her to a duel. She almost laughs, but then she sees the hard look in his eye, and she pauses. She is not only representing her people, here, but also the Wardens. The raw edge of all of his betrayals steels her resolve, and she feels her face go warrior-blank.

He offers her the ability to choose a champion and this time she does laugh. "Does your pride demand you not get beaten by a woman, or is it the fact that I'm a Warden?" Her tone is conversational, her smile sweet, but her eyes are sharp as razors. She draws her blades, beginning to pace the outside perimeter of their arena. "Or maybe it's because I'm Dalish. I don't know; you've done so very many craven and seditious things, it's hard to tell. Put up your shield and let's _dance_."

He yells, loud enough to stagger, but Finn is used to Alistair's tactics. Though it makes her ears ring, she remains steady, and darts out of the way of his swinging shield. She grins wickedly. This man is not as fast as Alistair. His rushes are clumsy. He's too soft from too much time in the palace. She can see the echoes of his former glory, and his tactics are sound, but he's failing. He cannot keep up with her, and he cannot catch her.

She slips around behind him as he rushes forward, kicking out at his ankle, and he stumbles. She aims three quick strikes at his back and then darts around the other side of him as he turns. In this way, she keeps him spinning, and every rush meets with nothing but empty air. Everything is going perfectly until he figures out her tactics and turns the wrong way at the wrong moment; he catches her full in the side with the point of his blade, piercing the mail. His face is cruel and arrogantly triumphant as he drives it home, just a little further, before pulling it out. A hot wave of blood follows, washing down over her leg, and she reels with sudden dizziness.

She barely gets out of the way in time to avoid a face full of steel, and stumbles backward toward the crowd. Someone catches her shoulders, steadying her, and pushes her back into the circle. Loghain goes on the offensive, pushing her, hard, and she realizes that he'd drawn her out on purpose. She gave him her measure, and now she barely manages to beat him off. He smacks her with his shield twice, and she curses in Elvish, trying to focus with the blur of a concussion setting in.

She shakes her head, attempting to clear it and remember her footwork against Alistair. He rushes her again, shield forward, and she ducks out to the left of him, grabbing his sword with the left dagger and shoving it out to the side with his momentum. She comes up underneath with her right, but he drops his shoulder at the last moment, catching her with the edge of his shield and sending her sprawling, sliding across the stone floor on her back.

She lays there, catching her breath, waiting for him to come to her. The wound in her side screams fiercely, and her head rings with the impact of the shield and the floor. Loghain stalks toward her, sword at the ready. She rolls out of the way as it descends, and gets to her feet unsteadily. She holds her daggers at guard, but her left hand is awkward and going numb, and she can't keep it raised high enough. Then she sees his glance to the side. He checked to see where he was going.

She takes a deep breath and begins to move. Her feet are her only hope. She's been taking a beating from his shield; he's expecting her to meet him head-on again, thinking he's taken her ability to circle. She moves forward, and makes as though to go for the same tactic again. She catches his sword with her left dagger, pushing it high. He brings his shield up, ready to smash her backward again, but at the last moment, she drops her shoulder and goes into a turn. When his shield catches her, she rolls along it toward his back, stealing momentum from it, the speed she needs that her wound wouldn't let her pull.

She sweeps her daggers up, both blades arcing out as she twirls like a dancer. Her main dagger, Duncan's dagger, buries itself half-way to the hilt in the joint right above his hip, catching him in the kidney; her left dagger, her Thorn, swings low and catches him in the joint right behind his knee. He screams as she yanks her daggers away, and she takes advantage of his momentary paralysis to tuck one up under his armpit, as the other comes to rest against his neck. He freezes.

"Wait," he says, and she pauses. "I underestimated you, Warden; you are not just a child, playing at war. You are strong, fast, determined. You remind me of Maric. I yield."

"Cailan. Duncan. All the Wardens, soldiers, and mages at Ostagar. The poisoning of Arl Eamon. The Crows. The fall of Castle Cousland. Imprisonment and torture of Templars, nobles and Wardens alike. Selling my people back to those filthy Tevinters! No! You will pay for what you've done," Finn hisses. She draws back one of her daggers and he is readying himself to make one last effort, when another voice rings out.

"Wait!" Riordan. Finn drops back from Loghain, since everyone is now bent on talking, her fingers flexing against the hilts of her blades. She stands next to Alistair, trying to gain some composure, trying to breathe despite her wounds. He is clearly distrustful of Riordan, even at first, and becomes irate at the mere suggestion that Loghain become a Warden.

"He hunted us down like animals!"

Finn nods. "He's been forcing us to fight a war on two fronts for the last nearly two years. Do you know how many people have suffered and died because of him? No! I will not welcome him amongst our brothers. There's no trusting him! He must forfeit his life for his crimes. I'm sorry, Anora," she adds, as the Queen begins to weep. Finn shakes her head again, everything going blurry for a moment. If she doesn't get some healing soon, she's going to collapse, but now is not the moment.

Loghain puts his hand on Anora's shoulder, and she clings to his pauldron for a moment. He whispers into her hair, kisses the top of her head, and then pushes her away, firmly. "Do it, Warden. I believe Ferelden safe in your hands."

She adjusts her grip on her daggers, ready to step forward, but the last of the battle lust is fading from her, and she is dizzy. She looks up at Alistair and remembers the devastation she saw there when they discovered what had passed at Ostagar, the echo of it the night after they returned. "Actually, I believe this honour belongs to someone else," she murmurs, looking up at Alistair. "I promised you."

He looks down at her, the darkness of the soldier swirling behind his eyes, and he nods. "For Duncan," he says. Loghain pulls his shield in and brings his sword up, but he makes no move as Alistair closes on him. He just stands there as Alistair puts all his considerable force behind one, well-aimed swing that neatly cleaves his head from his shoulders. There is a collective gasp, and the head rolls to a stop at Finn's feet; a huge pool of blood spreads out beneath him. Anora hits the floor a moment later.

The smell of blood makes Finn feel sick to her stomach – always a bad sign, since she's used to it by now. She clamps her arm down over her side. A healer rushes over to the Queen and brings her around, gets her back on her feet. At last, Eamon says, "So it is decided: Alistair will take his father's throne."

Alistair looks at Finn, and seems to take heart from the fact that she is just as surprised as he is. "Wait, what? Who decided that? _I_ didn't decide that."

Anora steps forward. "I will rule."

Eamon snorts. "Neither one of you are unbiased."

"You're biased, too, Eamon," Finn slurs, and he looks at her.

"Fine, you were the one to defeat Teyrn Loghain; what is your decision?"

"I've been trying to tell you, ser: Alistair is a Warden, and as such, is not eligible for the throne. Anora is already the Queen. I see no reason to make any changes to Ferelden's leader." She blinks, the room going all swimmy. "Bloody hell," she mutters, and then the floor rises up and smacks her in the face.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

It is the end of the day, and Finn stands in a hallway, numb. There are three Grey Wardens in all of Ferelden, and one of them is going to die. Riordan says he will take the hit, but it is battle. Many things happen, and too many of the _wrong_ things have happened, too often since this all began. Perfectly-laid plans have a tendency to go perfectly awry. She leans against the wall, behind a plant, sinking into an alcove, and wraps her arms around her waist. If Riordan falls, it's either her or Alistair.

"_What if a Grey Warden was forced to choose between ending the Blight or saving the Warden he loves?"_

Finn knocks her head against the stone behind her a few times, Morrigan's mocking words from two years ago now echoing bitterly and driving shards of glass into her heart.

_We scoffed at her._

She covers her face with her hands, fading back into the shadow. From her vantage point, she is able to watch Morrigan let herself into Finn's quarters, unasked. Finn scrubs a hand over her face. "Well, at least I've got warning," she mutters. This day could not possibly get any worse. "Dirthamen, please don't let this day get impossibly worse," she prays. She waits a few more heartbeats, then follows Morrigan into her room.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

A darkness clutches Finn's heart. She wants to tell Morrigan to get out, she wants to scream and tear her face off, but that darkness whispers to her. The memory of Alistair lying on the stones in the courtyard of Andraste's temple comes to her, unbidden, and she swallows. Could she send him to his death? Never. It would have to be her. She closes her eyes, seeing his worried, relieved face, over and over again as she comes to after one battle or another, ever since the Joining, always his face she sees when she wakes. Could she do to him what Tamlen did to her? Never.

"How did you discover this ritual?" Finn asks, voice hoarse.

Morrigan smirks. "This is what my mother intended from the start, Finn. I have not been with you out of a sense of public duty. Surely this does not come as a surprise. You imagine we aided you out of the kindness of our hearts?"

Finn stares at her. "I had hoped. I suppose it was naïve of me to think we were friends."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Alistair finds Finn sitting on his bed, staring at the floor. She does not raise her head when he comes in, and this worries him. "Alistair," she says, her voice breaking; she has not spoken his name this way since Tapster's, and the small hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He slides onto the bed next to her, curling his knee behind her so he can gather her into his arms. She trembles, and he kisses the top of her head.

"One of us could die tomorrow," she whispers, and he snorts.

"That's true every day."

"Yes, yes, it is, but... tomorrow is different, isn't it? Even if we win, we still lose." He sighs; he can't argue with that.

"Riordan will take the final blow for us," he says, confident.

"Yes, so he says, but we both know that might not be the case," she murmurs, her voice thick with threatening tears. He hugs her closer, kissing her temple and closing his eyes.

"There's nothing we can do about that, though. It's our duty as Wardens, to end the Blight. No matter what." _In death, sacrifice._

"But there is, there is something we can do, it's just... I wasn't going to say, but I can't _not_ tell you. Because, no secrets, no secrets, I promised. Oh, Alistair, it's Morrigan, that horrible bitch, dangling such a carrot," she babbles, and he frowns.

"What did she do?" If she is the cause of this...

"She has a way around it; we don't have to die tomorrow, but there's a price. There's always a price," she says, burying her face in his neck.

"Enough of this. Tell me."

"She has to get with child. Tonight. By a Warden. And before you ask, I already told her to go bother Riordan, and she said it would never work, because he's too old to the Order. It... It would have to be you."

He is shocked and disgusted. "You... You want me to get a child on Morrigan."

Finn sobs, the sudden flood of her tears soaking through the shoulder of his shirt. "No! No, I don't, I hate the very idea of it, it makes me sick! I hate her, I hate her... But I love you, Alistair, I love you so much..." He pulls her closer, hugging her tightly.

"Is this what you want me to do?"

"No! I don't want it! The idea that she wants to touch you fills me with murderous rage! I can't ask this of you, I can't, it hurts too much. But it's so tempting, so very tempting to grab that forbidden hope... and she knew, she knew all along; this is why she was with us in the first place. She watched us, knowing this, calculating how easy it would be to convince us." She shakes with the force of her crying, and he bows his head over hers. "Lie to me, Alistair," she begs in whisper. "Just for tonight. Tell me about our future, and all the children we'll have. Tell me again about that house in Redcliffe."

"With a balcony overlooking the central courtyard, where so many plants will run wild, you'll feel at home even in a house," he murmurs, the pain cutting him to the soul. He murmurs to her for a long time about everything they had dreamed, all this time on the road, all the things they told each other to keep from losing heart, to keep themselves going. Eventually, she falls asleep in his arms, her small hand pressed to his heart, agony on her face, even in sleep.

He lays her gently in the bed, covering her with his cloak, and looks at her for a long time. She couldn't ask it of him, but he could never forgive himself if he didn't at least try. He shudders with revulsion, but he rises, and heads for the door, in search of Morrigan.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

_Finn's Elvish: "It ends __**now**__, shemlen. Our people are forever free! I want your blood. The arrow flies straight and true!"_

_Note: Elgar'nan is the Dalish god of vengeance.  
_


	22. In Death, Sacrifice

Only three, Riordan says. Finn looks at all her friends, agonized by the decision. "Wynne, I need you; you're the only reason I survived the dragon at Andraste's temple. And... I'm sorry about this, but I need you to come with me, Zev. _Everything_ trembles in fear when they see us coming. That's it; I need the rest of you here to watch our backs and defend the gate. Sten, you're unstoppable, and you were born for this role; please lead them."

Riordan looks at Finn, confused. "That's only two; who is your third?"

Alistair smirks. "Me, of course."

Riordan looks between the two of them, and his brow furrows. "Perhaps one of us should be here at the gate," he says.

"Where I go, he goes," Finn says, simply. Alistair laces his fingers through hers, and she squeezes his hand. "_Vir adahlen_; we are strongest when we stand together." The senior Warden opens his mouth, but Finn cuts him off. "This is not negotiable, Riordan. You will yield." He holds his hands up in surrender, and Finn relaxes.

She crouches down next to Ponka and takes his big head in her hands. "Ponka, you are a good and loyal friend, and now I must ask something very difficult of you. You cannot follow me, this time. I need you to protect me by staying here, because this gate must hold." He whines, clearly pained, and pushes himself against her. She wraps her arms around his neck and whispers in his ear. "I have to know that you'll protect my back, that nothing will get through here to come after me once I've cleared the path. Will you do that for me?" He makes a strange little squalling noise in the back of this throat, and ducks his head. He slinks away, tail between his legs, and Finn's face twists with pain.

There are hugs all around, as everyone else says goodbye. Finn catches it out of the corner of her eye, the kiss that Zevran and Leliana share, and she realizes that all of the group are staring. Apparently no one realized just exactly where things had gone between them; they scrapped and fought like alley cats, all this time. Now they stand, heads bent together and eye to eye, his arms around her waist, and hers around his shoulders.

Zevran runs a finger down her ear, catching an earring gently between his fingers, and looks at her, so much painted there in his gaze. She closes her eyes, briefly, a tear slipping down her cheek. "I know," she whispers. He brushes it away, and she kisses his palm.

She runs her finger-tips down his tattoo, tracing the sinuous curve, and he looks pained. "I will return to you; this I swear." She shakes her head, more tears standing in her eyes, and opens her mouth to speak, but he kisses her again, silencing her. "I know," he says, drawing back. He gives her a last, long look, then breaks away and strides over to Finn. "Let's go," he says, voice harsh. She casts a glance back at Leliana, who is looking after them, agonized, and gives the bard a nod.

They push their way through the city streets, so jumbled and aflame that she barely recognizes the place. Wynne has her work cut out for her, trying to keep them all alive, but between the four of them, they are able to draw out and ambush bands of several darkspawn at a time, until they have finally cornered the general and taken him down.

They charge down the bridge into the alienage, and Finn is horrified to find that there are still people here. She meets the red-haired elf she saw before, and racks her brain for a name. "Shianni!" she blurts. "Why are there still people here?"

"They didn't tell us until it was too late for us to escape!" she spits, fire in her eyes.

Finn's mouth thins to a hard line. "Oh, of _course_." She sighs; no time to be irritated. "Get everyone out," she says. "There are a ton of darkspawn bodies in the marketplace. Grab their weapons; you will need to be able to defend yourselves in case more follow behind us. Go!" she shouts, as it looks like the girl might hesitate. The elves flee, and Finn is unhappy to see how many of them there really are. She hears the banging at the gate, and sets up her ambush in the alley.

Carefully, a few at a time, she lures them into her trap, Wynne freezing them in place while the rest of them beat on them until they fall. Finally, they round the corner and take on the general, and it, too, falls to their blades. Now, on to Fort Drakon. They cross the bridge, and then comes the scream that sends her to her knees. There is a dizzying, sickening moment where she is aware of herself, but also seeing herself through its eyes, as the archdemon bears down on them.

It is so very angry with her, that she has killed its children, hampered its efforts. They who are tainted yet not under control, they are a thorn in its side. Finn almost laughs, except that she feels like she might retch. _You will feel my Thorn_, she promises grimly, and it screams again, ringing in her head like a concussion. Next to her, she can feel Alistair, a second heartbeat, and smell him through the consciousness of the demon. It is glad that it sickens them, and it breathes fire upon the bridge that holds them as it flies past.

It is not pleased that they are still standing, and this time Finn does laugh. It gets far enough away that she snaps back to her own mind, and she reels with it. When she opens her eyes, she is on her hands and knees on the stone, and Alistair is leaning against the wall, looking dazed. She shakes her head, and Zevran pulls her to her feet. "No time for weakness," Finn mutters, shaking her head again, trying to clear it.

They continue their advance, time measured by the rise and fall of the blades. Their tactics are sound: lure and ambush, time and again, as they gruellingly make their way toward the fort. They are within sight of it when they hear the demon scream again. Finn holds her head, and she can feel Riordan, hanging onto its back, stabbing it repeatedly. She smiles, and, beside her, she can feel Alistair's grim satisfaction, as well. They share consciousness, watching through each others' eyes, through Riordan's eyes, and through the demon's, as well. They feel Riordan's blades biting into its back, and the scream that it lets loose rattles their bones.

Then, sickeningly, the world tilts again, and she is falling, falling. There is no fear, only regret, and then there is a blackness. The demon screams as she drags her mind away from the dark, and its cry is triumphant. Finn pulls herself back down into her own head, and realizes that she saw Riordan fall from its back, and drop down to the ground, far below. Her heart tumbled with him, landing and breaking with him. She looks at Alistair, horrified, and sees the same look mirrored on his face. He opens his mouth to say something, but then the demon screams again, and they both look up. There is no more time for second-guessing, no more time for thinking.

Every advance is paid for in blood as they slaughter their way through the city, past the palace, and onward to the Fort. She is long past the point of exhaustion and numb like she was in the Deep Roads, by the time they reach that stone edifice. Her world has narrowed to the dance of blades and the spilling of tainted blood. The demon's siren call draws her ever onward; all she has to do is keep moving toward it, and kill anything that comes into her path.

Draw out and ambush, draw out and ambush, through the city streets, all the way up the steps of Fort Drakon, through the halls and floors she and Alistair had worked so very hard to escape. They fight their way upward, the four of them, back to back and shoulder to shoulder, all of them exhausted and covered in blood, but the day just never ends. She can hear the demon screaming in her head; it is close, so close. She can tell by the furrow between his eyes, that Alistair can hear it too.

An ominous silence greets them as she opens the final door. Dozens of dead darkspawn litter the floor, and a giant pool of blood lies thickly under the corpse of an ogre. At the edge of all this, one, lone figure stands, splattered with blood. "Sandal?" Finn is shocked. There's not a mark on him. "What happened? Where's Bodhan?"

"Enchantment!"

Finn sighs and looks at Wynne. "If someone crushed a silverite rune, could this happen?"

Wynne looks around. "If it was appropriately powerful enough, I suppose it's possible," she says hesitantly.

"Obviously you can protect yourself, Sandal, so I'm going to leave you to it. It might help you to know that the rest of the fort is cleared out behind us. We've got to go up to the roof," she says. Standing still too long is making her notice all the aches, cuts, and cramped muscles, and she still has a long way to go. She trudges up the stairs, and is immediately flattened by a scream from the archdemon, as it notices their approach.

Her eyes refocus, and she is in Alistair's arms; he must have caught her before he put his back to the wall. He looks down at her, face grim and covered in blood, probably mirroring her own. No time for thinking. She meets Zev's eyes, one last time, and puts her hand on his shoulder. "Protect Wynne," she says, and he nods. She wants to say a lot more, but it's too late for all that. She pats his shoulder, just once, and then turns away. "_Vir assan_, my friends," she says.

She charges out onto the roof, and rallies her armies to distract the demon so she can get to it. The demon screams and thrashes, spits fire and sweeps people off the roof with its tail; it bats people away, scattering them like toys, with the force of its wings, and drips raw blood all over the ground. She notices with some grim satisfaction that Riordan managed to tear open its back, really well. It is in a lot of pain.

Its screaming is ringing in her head, making it hard for her to focus. Everything goes blurry, worse than the Fade, worse than her waking nightmares of the darkspawn and the dragon's cries. She forces herself to remember her feet, to move herself, to duck and weave, to spin and dodge, to follow through and roll with it. All her days, everything she has learned, all the training, all the battles, all the blood and tears, everything has been for this moment, this one moment. She stabs it, over and over. She screams with rage at all the lives that have been destroyed because of this demon, and the demon screams back, hearing her. Its focus burns her soul, and she shakes with it, but that focus imparts knowledge: it is close to death.

Her heart stops, and she swings her head, unerringly, to look at Alistair. He is turning, and he sees her. She locks eyes with him, just once, just this last time, giving herself just one, last look. They both knew this moment was coming, and he knows the price. She cannot take it twice; she cannot live through it again. It is her time. "_Abelas; ma emma lath, _Alistair_. Dareth shiral._" He shouts, but she is turning away.

She runs up its back-

_for good King Cailan and all his shining hopes_

_for all who died at Ostagar_

_for Duncan_

_for Riordan_

-she raises her daggers-

_for Lothering and Honnleath_

_for the Dalish, the dwarves, and the people of Redcliffe_

_for the Templars and mages of the Circle Tower_

-she leaps forward, onto the demon's neck-

_for Tamlen, and Alistair, and the life she will never get to lead_

-and drives them deep into the back of its thrashing head.

It roars, and the sound is so loud, both within and without, that it deafens her completely, leaving nothing but the bass rumble that reverberates in her bones, shaking her apart. A light, brighter than the noonday sun, blinds her, and the taint in her blood pulls against her skin, burning white-hot agony. The demon, in its torment, burns through her and eats her soul; she is fragmenting, she is falling, she is consumed.

_Ma serannas, _Alistair_. In na lath emma atisha..._

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Someone screamed. It was just a fragment, just a tiny little second of sound, but someone screamed.

_There_, there it is again. Something... smells like burning.

Another little snip of sound. Boots on stone, panicked voices, the scrape of metal against a hard surface.

"-fell-"

A dog barks. Something is shaking the world.

She is unhappy. Something hurts, very far away.

"-ore blood than sh-"

Things are coming faster now, rushing up on her from a long distance, through a tunnel of blackness. The hurting thing is getting more insistent. The sounds are less far apart, less unintelligible. She is rocking back and forth.

There is a pop, and she can hear without interruption. There is a lot of screaming, shouting and cheering, moans of agony and people calling out orders. There is a searing pain in her lower back that will not quit, but she cannot feel her legs. The pain in her chest is unbearable, and she struggles to draw air, gasping like a fish out of water. Her head is filled with a darkness she cannot put a name to. She tries to open her eyes, but can't. Someone with soft hands gives her a cool drink of water.

There is a shift, and she is lying on something soft. The screaming and shouting has faded, and quiet voices surround her. Gentle hands lie against her feverish skin, and she shakes her head. The motion makes her feel sick to her stomach, and she whimpers. The breath required sets fire to her chest again, and she gasps, but that, too, hurts, and she lets her breath out with a high-pitched keen.

Someone gasps. "She's awake."

"Well, give her another dose!"

"She shouldn't have woken from the first one," the first voice says, querulous.

"Who _knows_ what changes about them when they become Wardens. Just give her another dose!"

Something cool pours down her throat.

Another shift. She can feel her legs, and she can breathe. She tries to lift her arm, but it will not respond. Soft voices nearby, their words garbled at first.

"-an't let you in, ser."

"She won't know where she is when she wakes up," he says, and her heart flips.

"Alistair?" she says, weakly. She pries open her eyes, and sees canvas above her. There is a rustle and a clank, and then someone takes her hand. She turns her head slowly; if she moves too fast, it might just come off. His face swims into view, concern and fear in his eyes. She rolls her eyes from side to side, and tries to summon her mouse, but, though everything is blurry, nothing happens. "I've lost my mouse," she says.

His brow furrows. "What?"

"I can't change," she murmurs, her eyes slipping closed. "Must be because I wasn't dead before."

His lips touch her fingers, and a tear slips from her eye. At least she can have him in the _Setheneran_, even if he is the guise of a desire demon. "You're not dead," he murmurs.

She smiles. "Oh, that's good. Just tell me one thing, before I go with this, please. Did you pull him out of my head, or did you meet me before?"

He sighs. "I'm not a desire demon, Finn." His voice, like his eyes, is tired and resigned. "You're not dead."

She opens her eyes again, trying to focus on his face. It is smeared with blood, as though he hastily wiped it without a mirror. He is not wearing his armour any more, and he is missing his shirt; his stomach and his arm are bandaged. She blinks. "But... I killed the archdemon." Her eyes fly wide as comprehension dawns. "You did it," she breathes. "You went to Morrigan while I was sleeping."

He hangs his head. "I'm sorry. I couldn't bear the thought that if Riordan fell, which he did, that one of us would be left alone to mourn." He looks back at her, and runs his finger-tips across the lines of the tattoo on her forehead, his face sad, his eyes full of pain and hope. "You tried to leave me behind again," he murmurs. "You said you wouldn't do that; I had to hold you to your promise, somehow."

She tries to laugh, but the expansion in her newly-healed ribs is painful, and she ends up sobbing instead. She tightens her fingers around his, though her grip is weak. The tears slip from her eyes, unchecked. "Alistair, you big idiot," she says, though she is smiling now. "You know we're just going to have to track her down."

He offers her a watery smile of his own. "You said 'we'."

She sighs. "So I did."

"Does this mean you forgive me?"

"You still owe me a house in Redcliffe. I have to hold you to your promise, somehow," she murmurs, and is rewarded by his brilliant smile as her eyes slip shut again. "_Ma'arlath_, Alistair," she says, struggling to keep to consciousness. "I thought I was dying," she whispers. "You know what my last thought would have been?"

She can feel his nearness, the warmth of him, as he leans down to listen to her. "What's that?" he asks quietly.

"Thank you," she whispers, flexing her hand against his again, trying to squeeze it. "Your love has brought me such peace."

He presses his lips to hers, the sweetest elixir she has ever known, and she drinks deep.

This time, when they kiss, it is the promise of a new beginning.


	23. Shattered in Aspect

_WARNING: Major character death and suicide themes._  
_Much thanks to ScaryLady, my fic-saver._

Early morning light filters through the window of Anora's study as she addresses the Wardens sitting across from her. "Now that the capital is secure, the entire country is clamouring for my aid, but none so much as Amaranthine and the Bannorn." Anora shuffles papers on her desk, and pulls out some quite accurate reports on the situations in those places, handing them over to the Wardens. They bend their heads over the papers and begin murmuring to each other. After a time, they look up, and she says, "As you can see, they've both been overrun. When I appointed Vigil's Keep as the new stronghold, I had assumed you would travel there together, but then I received the report from the Banns, and I can't see any way around it. We're all spread so thinly at this point."

Finn and Alistair look at each other, a riot of emotions passing over their faces as they lock eyes in silent conversation. Anora can see the anguish this decision is causing them, and it warms her heart; rumours of their connection were accurate, it would seem, and this suits her purposes perfectly. Tearing them down will be much easier this way.

Anora bites her lip and furrows her brow, looking at them with _such_ concern. "It seems to me that the best idea is to send the better soldier to Rainsefere and the better politician to Amaranthine." They look at her, and she tilts her head demurely, folding her hands in her lap. "I'm sure you can see the urgency here. I can have horses arranged to leave whenever you have decided which way you wish to go, to get you there all the faster, and I'd like to send some soldiers to Rainesefere to be at your disposal, as well, to aid your efforts."

It does not take them long to come to a decision, as they return to her later that morning. She smiles sweetly for them and paints her face with worry. It is Finn who speaks first, but she looks to Alistair before she does. Interesting; she is the leader, but she gets his permission to do so. That will make her the easier target. "I'll be going to Amaranthine to secure the keep."

Anora smiles, relieved. "Thank you." _Thank you, so very much, for slaughtering my father in the middle of the Landsmeet like a common thief, and for being so very kind as to __let me__ retain my own throne._ "When will you be leaving?"

Finn takes a deep breath, obviously steeling herself, and says, "Well," another glance sideways, then, "Now, actually. Can't waste time, right? People are dying right now, while we sit and talk about it." She fidgets, edgy, and he puts a hand on her elbow. She subsides, and Anora files that away as well: he's the one keeping her together. She'll shatter like a pane of glass without him.

She nods, letting her brow remain furrowed with concern. "All right then, I see you've made your decision. I'll send a servant down to notify the stable-master that you are prepared. It will take a couple of days to muster the soldiers, Alistair, I hope you don't mind the delay on that; perhaps you wish to go ahead of them?"

He nods. "Yes. You'd be amazed what can be accomplished with just a few people who are really good at what they do." He smiles down at Finn fondly, but there is a brittle edge to it.

Anora nods. "I'm sure the stable-master will have your horses ready within the hour. Thank you again." She rises and smooths out her skirt, then smiles sadly, with just the right amount of sympathy as she takes their hands. _Enjoy your estrangement. May it bring you even the smallest measure of the grief you have caused me._

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

In the courtyard, Finn throws her arms around Alistair's shoulders and presses her lips to his ear. "Never lose heart, my love, my shield. By the Creators, I swear to you, I will bond with no other."

His arms tighten around her and he buries his face in her neck. "Stand tall, Finn. Nothing can keep me from your side. I _will_ come for you," he whispers fiercely. She turns her face and kisses him passionately, trying to give him enough heat to sustain him during the long, cold months to come.

She reaches up and strokes her hand across his cheek, one last time; he traces her tattoo and she closes her eyes, briefly leaning into his touch. "_Ma'arlath, Alistair. Dareth shiral; emma vhenan s'ara,_" she murmurs. Before she can lose heart, she turns from him and heads for her horse, the one that is meant to bear her away to Amaranthine. She's going to leave him behind again. The panic begins to rise immediately, and she wraps her arms around her waist. The feeling of wrongness does nothing but grow with every step she takes.

It is weeks of travel, and the route is beset by bandits and marauding bands of darkspawn. When they reach the borders of Amaranthine, the guard decide to drop her off there. "We don't know what the situation looks like at the keep, Warden," the leader says. "I wouldn't want to trust that my men and the horses will be able to find rest there; we have to make it back to the capital in one piece, and the road by itself will make that difficult."

Finn shakes her head. "No, I understand. I spent the entire Blight on my feet; I appreciate the convenience of the horse. Thank you. _Dareth shiral_," she says, waving. He salutes her, and they move out as she begins her hike.

Vigil's Keep reeks, long before she ever reaches it, and she hastens to it, even as a pelting rain begins to fall. She fights her way inside, instantly befriending a fresh-faced but stalwart recruit, Mhairi. Finn throws herself into battle with no restraint, trying not to think about the fact that she stands alone.

After the mess she had to clean up at the Circle Tower, she is entirely unsurprised to find a mage standing in front of a pile of dead Templars. Instead, she is curious; this is the first male mage she has dealt with who wasn't Irving or a blood mage, and she isn't sure quite what to make of him.

"Uh... I didn't do it," he says, glancing at the fallen soldiers.

Finn looks at them and feels nothing. She shrugs. "You know what? I don't really care either way. We're overrun and infested. Join the Wardens, and I'll protect you. I really need a healer on my side right now."

"You can do that?"

She tries not to chafe with irritation at the delay. "Look, I will make this quick: I am Finn Mahariel. And you?"

He blinks and stares at her, then shakes himself. "Anders. Look, are-" he starts, and she cuts him off.

"Right. Anders, welcome to the Grey Wardens. Now: help first, chat later. Let's go kill stuff."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Alistair watches after Finn until he can no longer hear the clatter of the horse that carries her away from him. She left him behind again, but it's not her fault; not this time. He finally tears his eyes away from the road and slowly heads for the horse that is meant for him.

He rides to Rainesfere in a numb haze, trying very hard not to think, to just _do_, as he defends the horses and the guards against brigands and darkspawn, all the way there. It gets to the point that he wishes he was walking; at least then, he'd be so tired he could fall down and sleep at the end of the day. All the riding may be necessary and faster, but it does nothing for the edge of his restlessness.

The weeks pass, and he arrives on Teagan's doorstep late one evening. Teagan finds Alistair standing motionless in front of the fire in the study. Something in his gaze makes the Bann start back, but he comes over and lays his hand against Alistair's shoulder. "We'll make it right, Alistair. You'll have her back again."

It is like a punch to the gut. Someone else admitting that Finn is gone from him cracks his resolve and he sits down heavily upon the hearth. He holds his head in his hands and cries, silently, for the first time in his adult life. He can hear Teagan moving around the room, and, after a time, he presses a tumbler into Alistair's hand. He knocks back four fingers of whiskey in one go and takes a deep breath as it sets his stomach to burning.

Teagan watches him sympathetically. "I thought at first that you would like to have a room here, but now I wonder. Where do you want to sleep, assuming you can?"

Alistair smirks, but there is no humour in it. "Doesn't matter," he replies, and Teagan nods.

"Then let me show you your room, and you can take advantage of a bath and some hot food. We'll talk again later, all right?"

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Alistair spends his first couple of days getting a feel for the people and what is going on in the land around him. When Anora's soldiers arrive, he befriends their captain and they work together to get them into shape for fighting darkspawn. He teaches them how to guard their eyes and mouths, and they go through tactics over and over again. They divide the company up into four groups, and start making sweeps through the countryside, eradicating small bands and hordes alike.

They become so good, Alistair begins to think larger, setting up ambushes and drawing in bigger groups, with himself as the bait. The darkspawn gravitate toward him, and they use that to their advantage. This strategy works out beautifully for months. Then they encounter the ogres.

It starts out as a standard ambush. The horde had been spotted a few miles away, coming toward them, and so they set themselves up to surround the darkspawn when they come through the copse of trees that lines the road. Alistair stands at the top of a small ridge, to one side, so that he can see far enough to smite their mage when it comes into view.

The horde comes snarling and stomping along, all right, but along with them come four ogres. "Maker's breath," he whispers. The horde itself is large enough that the soldiers will have their hands full. The ogres are going to wreak havoc; they haven't seen more than one or two at a time, and he's never seen more than three together at all, and even that only in Denerim on the last push against the Blight.

He takes a deep breath. One step at a time. First, he finds and neutralizes the mage, then he flips down his visor and heads for the nearest ogre. He manages to attract its attention, and focuses on smashing its legs out from under it. He leaps upon its back as it stumbles and drives his sword into its head. One down.

He is grabbed by the second and it begins to squeeze. He tenses, fighting against its grip, and a few of the soldiers gather around its feet to distract it. It drops him in favour of guarding its legs, and he stumbles to his feet. The third one is bearing down on him, so he switches his focus and begins to slash at it, but now he's caught between two of them, back to back with the three soldiers who rescued him from the second. He circles, trying to get the third to follow him, to keep its attention on him so that it doesn't grab for the soldiers.

It lunges, tossing him aside with its horns, and he lands heavily on his back. Before he can scramble to his feet, the fourth one is staring down at him and reaching for him with its giant hand. He gets his shield up, and rolls out from under. Two wounded, one hale. He moves toward the third again, hoping to get it out of the way quickly. The fourth rushes him, and he runs out of the way at the last moment. It ploughs into the second, scattering the soldiers at its feet. The second bellows at the fourth, and they get into a fist fight, which suits him just fine.

He focuses on the third, rolling to the side as it charges him again, and coming back to his feet behind it. He closes, but it kicks him, sending him sprawling. He stands up once more, shaking his head, his ears ringing with the beginnings of a concussion. It grabs for him, but he ducks up under its hand and slashes, wounding it badly under the arm. He circles again, and gets it on the inside of the thigh, then, as it stumbles, he leaps up over its shoulder and goes for the killing blow. Two down.

Maker. He's flagging. He can hear the battle still raging on around him, the soldiers holding up fairly well as long as he's distracting the big ones. Two and four have noticed him now, and gang up on him. He moves sideways, trying to keep them in his vision. Two rushes him, and he jumps at the last moment, landing to the side of it. He aims a well-placed blow to the side of its neck, driving his sword deep, but before he can pull it out, four grabs him, and he loses his grip.

Two staggers to its feet, and he would curse if he had the breath for it. Four punches him once, twice, three times before the soldiers at its feet manage to knock it back and it drops him. Two has disappeared, so he grabs a sword from a fallen soldier and attacks four again, though he is now beginning to stumble. The sword is too light and too short, but it serves. He slashes at it again, gains a strike, and then it rushes him, bowling him over. He shakes his head, his vision swimming, and tries to stand again, but its fist comes out of nowhere. The last thing he is aware of is a crunching sound.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Steven shakes his head and sits up. The battle is over, and he can hear the moaning of the fallen. He is hidden in the trees, far from the scene. Dimly, he recalls taking an ogre's foot to the face, flying through the air, and blacking out. Nearby, an ogre lays dead, with Alistair's sword sticking out of its neck. Incredible; it's precisely the opportunity he has been awaiting: a way to take his queen the very weapon that was used to slaughter the Hero of River Dane. He's been itching to get his hands on it ever since he first realized that it was Alistair whom he would be following.

Rising, he creeps over to the ogre and tugs the sword free. He wraps it in his cloak and steals away through the trees, running for Denerim with all he has left. Surely she will reward him for this display of loyalty.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Every night, they write letters to each other, and every day they wait in vain for responses that never come. Ten months pass as Alistair throws himself into his work and Finn labours feverishly to repair Vigil's Keep. They give up writing, much to Anora's delight, though it is clear from their letters that they both believe it to be the intervention of darkspawn.

Anora paces and frets, irritated that she has failed to break them. The Bannorn is fairly cleared and all reports out of Amaranthine indicate Finn's imminent success. "They will soon complete their tasks and return to each other," she complains, bitterly muttering to herself.

Then her eyes alight upon Alistair's sword, currently hanging over her sitting-room fireplace. Finn would be the easiest to shatter. All she has to do is send undeniable proof of Alistair's demise. Her grin is cold as ice and full of sharp teeth.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Finn stretches, standing in the late afternoon sunlight on the ramparts of Vigil's Keep, looking out over the recovering – but prospering! – city below, and feels a sense of peace. It is time to hand the Arling back to Nathaniel, its rightful heir, since he has proven himself to be such a good man. She can leave it to him and travel now to Redcliffe in search of Alistair.

A page runs up to her, breathless from all the stairs. "Messenger, ser," he gasps, "Great Hall." He points, and Finn nods. She makes her way there, happily making a mental list of all she intends to take with her, and all she wishes to tell Alistair when she finally finds him. She looks forward to his swell of pride at how cleverly she handled some of the political stupidity around here, and anticipates the expression on his face when she gives him the alabaster Warden and gryphon figurines she discovered in the market.

She is smiling as she enters the hall and sees a messenger in the Keep's livery standing with a long, heavy bundle in his arms. He goes to one knee as he offers it to her. "I was on my way back from the capital, ser, when I came across a messenger wearing Rainesfere livery. He was wounded, ser. 'Bandits,' he said, pressing this into my hands. Then he said, 'Warden-Commander Finn; she'll know what it means,' and fell dead at my feet. I could hear men shouting and crashing through the wood, so I ran, ser." He bows his head, and Finn puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"You did well. Thank you; go and rest now," she suggests. She carries the bundle over to the long table and lays it down. "Make sure that poor page gets something good to eat and an extra few silvers; would you, please, Varel?"

"Of course."

She pulls the outer cloth from it and encounters a Rainesfere sigil bound in the twine around the package. She pulls out her pocket knife and cuts the twine. The fabric around the object finally falls away, revealing Duncan's sword. The only way this object could be sitting here is if they pried it out of Alistair's cold, dead hand.

She staggers as the bottom falls out of her world, and stumbles heavily against the table. The room spins as she turns away; a roaring in her ears drowns out all other sound. The doors rush up on her and she puts her hands out; they open, and she careens out into the courtyard. She stands there in shock, everything gone to ashes, the sunlight an incongruous contrast to the sudden blackness that coats her soul, killing her on the inside.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

It is Anders who finally manages to find her. He is standing in the courtyard, and looks up, desperate and hoping to find answers in the stars. This is when he notices the rippling of a pennant that is the wrong colour. The Keep doesn't have any white pennants. He takes the steps two at a time, all the way up to the top of the parapet, years of running about in the Tower leaving him hardly out of breath.

She is wearing nothing but a man's tunic; the fabric whips across her body, the wind revealing her bare legs almost to the hip, and her tangled hair flies madly about her head. She tips a bottle to her lips and drinks the last of its contents, four long swallows, then simply lets go. It tumbles end over end to smash to the ground, far below. Goose-flesh stands out on her skin, and she curls her toes over the edge of the stone, looking down.

"Commander?" he says, softly, not wanting to startle her. She drags her eyes up and stares at him.

"Anders..." she slurs. She is completely different. He has seen her sad, in pain, even suffering and despondent. He has seen her drunk, sick, cranky, stressed-out, angry, tired, and confused. He has carried her back to the keep when she's been hurt beyond his skill, and held her many times when she had terrible nightmares that left her pacing the courtyard like a madwoman. He has been her best friend over the last year, but he has never seen her like this, and it scares him, because she's the strongest person he's ever known.

She is hollow, defeated, completely lost. Gone are her pride, her strength, her purpose and confidence. Every last spark of what he has come to think of as essentially _her_ has been scoured away, to be replaced by a chilling emptiness. Even her voice doesn't sound the same; it is flat, dull, and as broken as she is. "It's over," she says, her voice so low it is almost lost to the wind.

He holds out his hands, coming closer. She looks up at the stars, swaying slightly. "Why don't you come inside, and we can talk about it," he suggests, edging ever nearer. As the wind tugs the shirt in the right direction, he sees a patch on it, near her waist, and remembers a story she told him after they encountered Wynne outside the chantry in Amaranthine. She had been laughing.

"_...and he called her 'grandmotherly', trying to get her to patch the elbows as well. He thought it was a compliment!"_

He suddenly becomes alarmed, knowing that the idea of returning to her lover is a powerful talisman she has been clinging to all this time, in order to keep herself moving forward. She's almost within his reach, and when she shakes her head in negation, he can see that she is crying. Seeing the tears over all that blankness makes him shiver.

"He fell," she murmurs, and he can only hear it because he's so close now. "Left _me_ behind. S'posed to fall together. Can't do it alone," she says. Her toes flex against the stone and she shifts her balance forward. He is just close enough that he can snap an arm out to catch her about the waist, and he drags her down and off the edge of the roof.

They tumble backward and she thrashes until he pins her down, leaning over her. "Heh. Caught you," he says, and her eyes fly wide open. He has never seen her so drunk. She doesn't even see him.

"Alistair!" she wails, and he is so surprised, he doesn't move back in time; she lays an incredibly heated kiss on him, and he has a hard time prying himself away as he suddenly thinks of her as a woman instead of 'The Commander'. Regretfully, he Disorients her and pulls her up, throws her over his shoulder and carries her inside. After a couple flights of stairs, she begins to moan in a way he recognizes after too many nights of drunken revelry, and pulls her down just in time to keep her from throwing up on either one of them. He holds her hair back as she cries and retches up all the whiskey she drank into one of the potted plants.

She seems to feel better after that, and he holds her up as she stumbles along. When they reach the courtyard, Oghren finds them. "What in the name of the Ancestors did you do to the Warden, Sparkle-Fingers?" he growls, and Anders steps back.

"Hey, hey, nothing. She almost jumped off the tower, all right? She's very, very drunk. Get someone to send her a bath while I walk her around a little; she needs to walk some of it off before we can trust her to lie down." Oghren looks shocked; it's apparently a night for firsts.

"Why would she do that?"

Before Anders can answer, Finn rouses and wails, a broken sound of anguish and despair that devolves into sobbing. "Alistair," she moans, "I wasn't there."

Anders sighs. "I gather some misfortune befell her lover."

Grief transforms Oghren's face. "Oh no," he says, softly, and looks up at Anders. This is a side of Oghren he's never seen before, either. "I heard what she was like when she first Joined. You watch her real close," he says cryptically, then he turns on his heel and runs for the kitchens.

Anders watches him go, wondering what he's in for, but pulls Finn along. He makes her do laps around the keep's wall, up and down the stairs, circles around the courtyard, back up the walls again, for over an hour, until she finally begins to come around again. When she sees him and calls him by _his_ name instead of 'Alistair', he takes her to her room and dumps her in the tub that the servants have just finished filling.

She just lies there, so he grabs a rag and washes her face, at least. She stares at the ceiling blankly. "Why did you stop me?" she asks, at last, the first thing she's said that wasn't slurred. Her voice is flat and emotionless, lacking the lilt that would have truly made it a question. "I finished my work. Everyone is happy. I'm done."

"Was he truly your only reason for living?"

She flinches, a flicker of torment, and then that blankness returns. At last, she says, "I've outlived my mate, twice, before I could properly bond with them. Both times, I could have saved them. Both times, duty kept me from it. I've got nothing left."

He watches her, silently. She barely blinks. It breaks his heart. He's followed her faithfully for the last year, he's admired her strength and unyielding resolve. He's _believed_ in her. He decides to go out on a limb. "You said you can't do it alone," he begins.

There is that flicker again. "No. Can't go down into the stone without him, can't die like that, not alone," she says. "Can't be out here alone, not without my shield. I don't know what to do with myself. I wouldn't even _be_ here without him; I would have been dead a hundred times and a hundred times over. Yes, he's my only reason for being. Who else could have pulled me from that darkness? Now he's gone, and there's nothing left for me to do. My hands are empty. There is only silence where he used to lie."

"What darkness?"

She rolls her eyes to the side, to look at him. She regards him for a long time, her face chillingly blank, and he wonders what is going on behind her eyes. She looks down and climbs out of the tub, the tunic dripping around her, plastered to her body and completely see-through, wet as it is. He drops his gaze and blushes, remembering the kiss she gave him on the parapet, and then feeling completely inappropriate, because it was meant for someone else; he was stealing something from them by being there, in that moment, and it makes him feel dirty. She doesn't answer him. When he looks up, she is staring at her armour stand. When he looks in that direction, he sees her daggers there, as well.

"You should go to bed," she says softly, her voice still curiously hollow. He's beginning to see what Oghren meant.

"No," he says, and sighs. "I can't do that." He tries to redirect the conversation to where he was going in the first place. "What if I told you I can't do it alone, either?"

Slowly, her gaze returns from a thousand miles away, and she swings it to him, regarding him steadily. "What do you mean?" She is so toneless; this is more statement than question.

He shifts, nervously. "He was your rock, right? The thing you clung to, to give yourself a reason to keep going?" She doesn't respond, but he can see by the way she looks at him that he has struck truth. "Have you considered that _you_ might be that for someone else?"

There, the flicker again. "Don't do that to me, Anders," she says, her voice cracking.

"Too late," he says, and spreads his hands, helplessly. "If I don't have you to protect me from the Chantry, I'm a dead man."

That stone mask cracks and tears fill her eyes. She steps out of the tub on wooden legs, her movements jerky like a broken marionette, and then she collapses on the floor and cries. He gathers her into his arms, and she clings to him, crying on his shoulder. This, too, scares him, because he's never seen her cry until tonight, but this is preferable to the truly terrifying blankness. She cries herself to sleep in his arms, and he lays her down in her bed, even though she's still wet; now, so is he, from shoulders to knees, and he sighs, looking down at himself. He goes to stand up, but she whimpers and grabs at him in her sleep, pulling him down, and he topples over onto the bed with her.

Now that he's closer, he can hear what she is whispering. "Alone... you left me all alone."

His eyebrows knot with sympathetic pain. He pets her hair and puts his arm around her, then leans down to whisper in her ear. "Shh... Finn, it's Anders. You're in the Fade; you're dreaming. You're not alone; I'm here." Even all the times that he carried her almost-broken body back to the keep, he never noticed how little she actually is, not until now, when she is curled in on herself and vulnerable.

"...Anders?" Her voice is so small. Something in his heart cracks dangerously, and he takes a deep breath. She presses her hand to his chest, and shudders, but falls silent. It is many long hours before sleep finally steals over him, as well.


	24. Freedom in a Bottle

_To Her Grace, Grand Cleric Elemena of Ferelden_

_25th day of Harvestmere, 9:33_

_I respect your reticence on this matter, however, I must stress that the Grey Wardens are not part of the Chantry, nor are we part of the Circle of Magi. In order to become a member of the Order, all Wardens must abandon all former titles and allegiances. As such, it is vital that we establish our own phylactery repository. As I stated before, the Warden Anders is currently the only mage counted amongst our ranks, so we are not, in fact, asking for an extensive search of your own vaults. By establishing this precedent at the outset, we can avoid complications later. When others someday join us, it will be a simple matter to deal with each phylactery as the situation arises._

_As Vigil's Keep has become the official stronghold of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden, it is the most logical place for our vault. I have allocated a great deal of time and resources to this matter; barring near total destruction of the Keep itself, the only way to breach the vault is with a key, which is kept in a secret and secure location known only to the Warden-Commander._

_I appreciate your understanding, and look forward to continued positive relations between the Grey Wardens and the Chantry in the future._

_In Peace,_

_Warden-Commander Finn Mahariel_

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Following Finn's suicide attempt at the end of Wintermarch, Anders appoints himself her personal guard, stays glued to her side, and so is forced to practically move in with her to satisfy himself as to her safety. He ends up getting dragged into her bed in the middle of the night when she starts screaming; after two weeks straight, he gives up trying to have his own cot and just sleeps next to her. He can react and get back to sleep faster if he's already there, and grows used to her not remembering a thing in the morning.

The rumour-mill in Amaranthine grinds away as everyone comes to the assumption that they are lovers. The Wardens know differently, but they allow the idea to flourish, because it's preferable to the danger they open themselves to politically if they admit the truth. He takes to putting his arm around her shoulders, and she doesn't protest, actually seeming to be grateful for the support. This also serves as reinforcement, which doesn't hurt, and the populace becomes certain. He is surprised by how much approval they actually gain for it.

A contingent of four Templars arrive with the spring, solemnly bearing an ornate box that is sealed with complicated locks. Anders nearly jumps out of his skin, and the Templars give him some _very_ unfriendly looks, but Finn interposes herself, squaring her shoulders.

"I am Warden-Commander Finn Mahariel. Welcome to Vigil's Keep, home of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden," she says, pointedly. "This is Warden Anders, my second-in-command." She stares them down coolly, impassive as stone. She holds out her hands. "The box you carry is meant for me." They shift uneasily and look at each other.

Finally, one of them says, "We're supposed to deliver it directly to your vault."

Finn sighs. "Very well." She points at the one who spoke. "You, come with me."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

_To Her Grace, Grand Cleric Elemena of Ferelden_

_24th day of Cloudreach, 9:34_

_I must strongly protest the insistence of the Templars that they remain on our premises. The prospect of a Warden mage going rogue or becoming an abomination is of no hazard to our Order, or anyone, as we have a long history of successfully neutralizing such threats. Grey Wardens are trained in combat tactics against mages, as the darkspawn count magic-users amongst their ranks, and we must be prepared to survive their onslaught. I assure you, we are thoroughly capable of policing ourselves, and have done so for centuries._

_You may recall the troubles that Kinloch Hold was embroiled in when the mage Uldred went rogue and became an abomination. Though many brave Templars fell in defence of the tower, they were unable to secure it, and nearly slaughtered all survivors in calling for a Rite of Annulment. I went in with only one other Warden and a mabari war-hound for support. Yet, just we two (with the later addition of the healer Wynne, whom we discovered being taxed to the limits just trying to keep a doorway sealed), cleared the entire nest of demons, blood mages, and abominations from every floor, and set the hold to rights. If you yet remain uneasy, I urge you to contact First Enchanter Irving and Knight-Commander Greagoir at Kinloch, who were also present at that time._

_In Peace,_

_Warden-Commander Finn Mahariel_

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

The day after the Templars leave, Finn takes Anders down to the vault and opens it. He is silent as she removes the locks on the box and pulls out a little glass vial. She turns and looks up at him, then presses her palm to his cheek, some flicker of emotion finally coming back to her face. It is sorrow, but there's a little fondness in there, and at least it is something. He has come to treasure these moments when she suddenly shows some feeling, because she doesn't do it for anyone else any more. She strokes her thumb over his cheekbone, studying his face carefully, like she means to memorize it. "Your fate is in your own hands, and no one else's," she says. She looks down and, taking his hand in hers, presses the phylactery into it.

She produces another little bottle, identical, and puts it in the cask, sealing it shut again. He is shocked. In his hand is _his own phylactery_, a thing he never expected to see, let alone touch. "How- How-"

She bows her head over the box. "Power and influence, my friend. I used mine for this, for you. I've established this room as the phylactery vault for the use of all future mages who join the Order here in Ferelden. Every Warden-Commander from here on out will do this: you get yours back, and we replace it with a vial of darkspawn blood. It will glow, because of the taint, so if anyone thinks to check or somehow forces it on us, we won't give up the game, but it'll be useless. This is especially good because if anyone kills the Commander, the secret is in the hands of the mages, and it can't be used against you." She turns around and looks at him again. "You shouldn't have to rely on me to save you."

"You're a good man, Anders, and a good friend. Don't think I'm ungrateful for all you've done for me." She reaches up and touches him in the middle of the forehead, softly tracing a line down his nose and over his lips, seemingly entranced by the passage of her finger. In the silence, as he stands there, stunned, she whispers, "Maybe in another life, the rumours could have been true." She rolls up to her toes and brushes her lips against his, soft as butterfly wings, and then hugs him around the neck, resting her head against his shoulder. His hands come up automatically to hold her, and he buries his face in her hair, allowing himself a moment of illusion.

Then his brain engages, and he remembers the conversation they had the night he pulled her off the edge of the roof, almost six months ago. He told her that she was his rock, because he only had her to keep the Chantry off him. Now that she has handed him his phylactery, she has discharged that duty; just like all the others, she takes it on as her personal mission, finds the resolution, and finishes the task. She is saying goodbye, saying things she would have kept hidden if she meant to live out the day, and it is a stone cold shock that this strikes to the very heart of him.

She drops back, but he doesn't let her go, and he frowns down at her, suspicious. She meets his gaze, opaque, as usual. She takes a breath, hesitates, then says, "I sent the letters to Anora and Irving today, telling them of my abdication. Even as we speak, Nathaniel is going through the stuff in the office and settling in. I'm finished, here."

He studies her carefully, trying to determine her thoughts, but her gaze has wandered away, straying over the empty shelves, her mind already miles from here. "Then I think it's time we left this place," he says, trying to call her back.

She blinks, and looks up. "We?"

He nods, gravely, and brushes the hair away from the side of her face. He still can't get over how different, how vulnerable she has suddenly been. It makes him feel protective; that should be wrong, but... now that she's sent the letters, she's not his Commander any more. The strings she tugs on should be completely inappropriate, but... she's not someone else's lover any more, either. "We'll go to Rainesfere, so you can mourn properly," he says.

"We," she breathes, her eyes wide with surprise. "I can't-"

He presses a finger to her lips. "If he loved you half so well as I do, he would be horrified that you intend to end yourself and follow him to the grave. I'm not leaving your side, and you clearly need to get out of Amaranthine, so, I'm going with you."

A crack appears in her stone mask, and a tear slips out of the corner of her eye, though the blankness remains. He struggles not to react; leaving aside what she does in her sleep, this is the first time she has cried in six months. She's been repressing it so hard, he's afraid she's going to break under the pressure. She shakes her head. "I'm not-"

He doesn't want to hear it. She has been so focused on what _is not_ and _cannot be_, what she _does not have_ and _does not hold_, that she is missing what _is_ and _can be_, what she _does have _and _can hold_. He is soul-weary from watching her tear herself apart while she is blind to the fact that what she says and thinks do not match what she does.

Acting on impulse, he silences her with a kiss. She goes rigid, sucking in a breath and trembling, but then she surges against him, returning it with more heat than he expected. Then again, a moment later, she is pulling back and covering her face with her hands, shaking her head, though she doesn't leave the circle of his arms. Her voice is muffled, and he can see the tears falling through her fingers. "Oh, gods, Anders, I'm so broken, this isn't fair to you. I cannot give you what you seek, what you deserve."

"How about you don't kill yourself. Can we start with that? I would cry, a lot, and it would do terrible things to my complexion." She actually makes a short little sobbing noise that almost sounds like a laugh, and this is a welcome change. She nods, and wipes at her face with her hands.

When she looks back up at him, he is startled by the sudden shift in her. She's taken several long strides back from the edge, and is now kissing the shadows of the Commander he met that first night. She takes a deep, shaking breath. "All right. We'll go to Rainesfere." She closes her eyes, briefly, and turns her face aside. "I hate waiting. Now that I've decided, I want to just leave. Let's go pack."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

_To Her Royal Highness, Queen Anora Theirin of Ferelden_

_15th day of Bloomingtide, 9:34_

_Your Majesty:_

_As you are no doubt aware, I have been successful in my efforts on behalf of the Grey Wardens and the people of Amaranthine. Vigil's Keep has been repaired by Dwarven craftsmanship, and will stand strong for centuries. Trade flow has been restored, the roads are open, the darkspawn have been eradicated, the nobles are pleased, and the dross is cleared. The land flourishes, and the arling looks forward to a good growing season, putting it firmly back on its feet. The people are happy, and the city of Amaranthine prospers._

_I am now writing to inform you of my resignation as Warden-Commander, effective immediately. I have named Warden Nathaniel Howe as my successor, as he has proven to be intelligent, forthright, and dedicated to the welfare of the people and the arling. He is among the finest our Order has to offer, and I am confident you will find him both a capable administrator and a stalwart ally to the Throne._

_In Peace,_

_Warden Finn Mahariel_

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

_To First Enchanter Irving and Knight-Commander Greagoir, Kinloch Hold_

_15th day of Bloomingtide, 9:34_

_I wish to extend my heartfelt gratitude for your assistance in the matter regarding the Grey Wardens' pylactery vault at Vigil's Keep. It is a great relief to myself and the Order to know that the denizens of Kinloch Hold remain amongst our allies. We look forward to further favourable interactions, and the continued support of our efforts to keep the mages of the Order under our own auspices._

_I also write to inform you that I am handing over my position as Warden-Commander of Ferelden to Warden Nathaniel Howe, whom I know you will find to be every bit as trustworthy and approachable as I have been, and I hope you will welcome him as an ally._

_In Peace,_

_Warden Finn Mahariel_

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Finn continually expresses amazement over the peaceful travel; they only encounter darkspawn once, the entire way. It takes so much less time than she remembers, she tells him, now that she doesn't have to stop and skirmish two or three times a day. Under the open sky, her nightmares subside a little, and she screams less, which Anders is grateful for, considering how much he _really_ needs the sleep after all the walking they do during the day.

She returns to herself rather quickly, once she is able to revert to what is a more natural rhythm, for her, and randomly tells him Blight stories about some of the places they pass. Sometimes these stories leave her happier and laughing, but mostly they cut off abruptly at the part where Alistair becomes involved, leaving her troubled for hours.

At night, they lay stretched out in opposite directions, heads together and cheek to cheek, staring up at the sky as Finn shows him the Dalish constellations, or curled up under a blanket together as he reads to her out of a venerable old book he carries that is written in both Elvish and Tevinter. The Tevinter, he knows, the Elvish, she knows, and he cherishes the few times he actually gets her to laugh over the ridiculousness of some of the mistranslations that occur within its pages.

She sits next to him as they eat, rests her head on his shoulder, and falls asleep in his arms. Every so often, she will ask for him in her sleep, and when he answers her, she smiles. The longer they travel, the more often she smiles; though it is still infrequent, it gives him hope. One night, a couple of days' travel outside of Redcliffe, he presses her up against a tree and kisses her again, unable to stand it any more. She responds, wrapping her arms around his neck and returning it, but she is shaking, and when she pulls back, though breathless, she is also agonized.

"Anders," she whispers, her arms still around his neck, "I'm not an easy woman to love. I am treacherous terrain: full of rock slides and sudden floods, lightning and snow. If you're looking for a fire, you might freeze to death, here. I am neither safe nor certain. I cannot tell you that I'll be able to give you what you want, or even need. I cannot promise I will be good for you, nor that I won't break your heart."

He regards her seriously. "Would you ever intentionally do something to hurt me?"

Her eyes widen. "No! I care; I'm warning you because I don't _want_ to see you hurt. I'm uncommonly good at falling apart and doing stupid things. I only really know what I'm about when I've got a blade in my hand. Everything else is suspect, including, and especially, me."

He looks at her for a long moment, then shrugs, a little smile curving his lips. "Eh. I've always been a gambling man." He bows his head and seals his lips to hers, and this time, though she trembles, she doesn't pull away.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

They reach their destination in about two weeks, at the end of a balmy day, and Finn declares that she is looking forward to a bath. She hikes up the steep incline, and smiles as she hears the raucous chorus of men's voices lifted in drunken revelry. The evening sun paints the entire town in shades of crimson and gold, and she pauses at the door to turn and look back over the town before she pushes it open and heads inside.

Once the door is opened, she can see that all the noise is coming from a contingent of Redcliffe's soldiers, as they bang their mugs on the table and chant in chorus. She pushes her way through the crush up to the bar, where two stools happen to be unoccupied. She grabs them and pushes them together. Anders rests his staff against the bar and puts his arm around Finn's waist as she rests her pack on one of the stools and shrugs out of it. He talks to Lloyd's new assistant, or maybe his replacement, about room, food, and bath.

She presses the coin pouch into his hand as she goes up on her toes to murmur in his ear. "I'm dead tired and it's really loud in here. As soon as we get the key, let's take everything upstairs." He nods, and she picks up her pack again, suddenly hoping that no one recognizes her so she won't be forced to sit through a round of hello's and congratulations, claps on the back and mugs raised. She closes her eyes and leans her forehead against his arm as he negotiates their provisions, and he is finally handed a key.

Finn drops her pack on a chair by the table and hangs her helm on the armour stand. Anders lights the lamps with a thought while she goes to the window looking out over the city and the lake. She lays her hand against the frame, remembering the last time she saw this place, right before the battle for Denerim.

Anders comes up behind her and wraps an arm around her waist, and she leans her head back against his shoulder, closing her eyes. "More memories?" he asks, sensing her disquiet.

"I'm haunted, like an old ruin," she murmurs. After a moment, she stirs, and begins to take off her armour. Anders helps her with the straps, and she hangs each piece on the stand. She loses two inches in height when she takes her boots off, and, as ever, marvels at how much shorter that really makes her, as she looks up at him again.

"What?"

She shakes her head, smiling. "I'm short."

He laughs. "Yes. And?"

She shrugs. "Sometimes I notice."

He laughs again, and there is a knock at the door. Anders gets the food while Finn clears away their packs, and they sit down to eat. Finn stares at her empty plate for a long time. "I think I will go down to the chantry and speak with Mother Hannah in the morning. If anyone is going to know what passed, it will be her," she murmurs, at last.

She rises again, restless, and paces over to the window again, bracing her hands against the frame and resting her forehead against the cool glass. Her breath fogs the pane, blotting out the night, and she closes her eyes, fighting the sudden wave of misery that threatens to make her cry again. "I know I don't have any right to ask it, but will-"

"Andraste's ass, Finn, obviously. I'm not just going to abandon you to face it on your own after coming all this way."

She laughs under her breath. "Sorry. Thank you." She turns around and he is standing right behind her. She jumps, startled, and he laughs quietly. "Creators, Anders, how do you do that?"

He pulls her into him and leans down to whisper in her ear, "Plenty of reasons to learn how to be very, _very_ quiet, when you live in a place where everyone shares rooms. Never mind the peeping Templars." He draws back and looks at her, and there is humour there, sure, but he's also serious. Before she can think of anything to say, he douses the lamps the same way he lit them. In the next moment, he is kissing her, more intensely than any time before, and she finds herself responding with a whimper.

The sudden rush of her desire is a powerful thing, and she gasps, tugging back. She stares up at him, the moonlight coming through the window lighting his face. She tries to catch her breath, to form a coherent thought, but he runs his hands up her back and she loses the thread. He's safe, and he loves her. She cares, and it's been a long time since anyone touched her; she's even known him longer than she knew Alistair after losing Tamlen, before she gave over her virginity to him. There is no shame in this, when all that has gone before is ashes. All these thoughts flit through her mind in the space of a heartbeat.

She steps forward, taking his face in her hands, and kisses him again, giving in.


	25. Silence of Dirthamen

_I was going to hang on to this until Monday, but I know I left everyone breathless, and it's just burning a hole in my pocket. This is the final chapter; no epilogue. Thanks, my readers, for sticking with me through all this. ScaryLady, I owe you much in the way of thanks, for pulling me through this. You've the patience of a saint. :-*_

_Note: Dirthamen is the Dalish god of secrecy._

_30th day of Guardian, 9:34_

Berwick sits in the Redcliffe inn, drinking a mug of ale. Cold rain pelts down outside, riming the windows with ice. The town is practically shuttered for the winter, and few move about, but one man, in heavy armour and an even heavier cloak, makes his way up the slick incline to the inn and comes through the door. Bella hurries to help him with his cloak, when she sees his face.

"Ser Alistair," she says, taking it from his hands. "You're like to catch your death out there," she admonishes, bringing him a mug of hot cider. He smiles gratefully and sits next to Berwick. "Well, I see you've come around again. It's good to see you well. I'm surprised you travel in this weather."

Berwick nods, setting down his mug. "Tales to be told and silver to be had," he says, clasping hands with the Warden. "Winter's the time that pays best; people let you sit by their fires and feed you, then, out of sympathy and for want of a tale while they're shut in. Makes for some interesting travelling. How's your shoulder?"

Alistair nods, warming his hands on his mug. "There's very little that can't be healed with enough magic," he says with a smirk. "Really, I just count myself fortunate that my men took down that last ogre fast enough to bring me back here before I bled out." He grimaces, remembering the long weeks of stretching out his newly-healed muscles and retraining them to his shield. "Did you find out anything about the letters?"

"Well, now, that's the interesting part. All messengers are being routed through official channels." He screws up his face, staring off into space, then says, slowly, "To... 'halt the spread of slander and misinformation' is the line, I think. That's what the guard said."

"You know, word had reached us that messengers had to be wearing official livery, but I thought it was for their protection, you know," Alistair muses. He rubs at his lip, subconsciously playing with the patch of scrub under it.

"Well, there's guard stations positioned everywhere there's a major crossroads, and all travellers have to check in with them; all merchants are subject to search. I guess the queen's trying to crack down on smugglers and the illegal lyrium trade, too."

Alistair nods. "Anything out of Amaranthine?"

Berwick shakes his head. "Not much. I hear that there's been a lot of trouble with the nobles and darkspawn, that traders are going in and not coming out, and all kinds of things that are of suspect credibility. I can't get anything specific, but it sounds like things are still a mess. The border's been sealed; you have to have proof of your business to get in there right now. Only a few messengers are making it in and out, and sometimes not even out. Well, at least, that was the word as of the end of Harvestmere; like I said: not much going in or out."

Alistair chews his lip and looks out the window. "Right, I get that." He drinks more of his cider, then looks back at Berwick. "How long are you in town?"

The elf shrugs, toying with his mug. "Depends on how long the sleet lasts. I'm not travelling in that. I'll have to find somewhere to hole up before too long. I'm thinking there's a pretty girl I knew down at the edge of the lake by Kinloch who might like some company for the winter. If I find she's not available, I may come back here, I may move on... I don't know. Wherever the wind blows, eh?"

Alistair nods and gives the man a smile. "Well, I hope you find a warm bed on the shore," he says, thinking sadly of his own, empty, cold one. He lays a small stack of silver on the table. "Have at least a couple days rest on me," he says, knocking back the rest of his cider. "Thanks for the news. Keep yourself well, all right?" Berwick nods and raises his mug. Alistair reclaims his cloak from Bella, it having hung by the fire just long enough for the ice to melt.

"You're leaving so soon?" she asks, all aflutter with concern, and puts her hand on his arm. He looks down at her, pausing, noticing for the first time how she has looked at him lately; these last few months she has become much more friendly toward him. Oh.

He takes her hand and presses her fingers, before letting it go again, effectively moving it off of his arm. "It's kind of you to worry on my behalf, but I cannot stay. I've got work to attend to, Bella." She tries to step closer, and he puts a hand on her upper arm, gently, to steady her. She bites her lip and he turns away, pulling up his hood. "Good night," he murmurs.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

_6th day of Drakonis, 9:34_

Berwick is back within the week, and Alistair is surprised to see him. He shakes hands with him as they meet up in the chantry, by happen-stance. "Back so soon? I thought you were going out by Kinloch."

Berwick nods. "I did, at that. But I heard a curious piece of news I thought you might be interested to hear, though I don't know how you'll take it. Much to my surprise, I discovered a caravan of traders who had recently come from Amaranthine."

Alistair is immediately paying keen attention. "And?"

"Well, first off, things have got really good around there; the roads are open and people are coming and going, the merchants are happy, and the darkspawn have apparently been dealt with to the point that the entire city had a celebration. So, the arling is doing well." He hesitates.

Alistair eyes him, warily. "What else?"

Berwick takes a deep breath. "It's not good."

Alistair closes his eyes briefly, and turns his face to the side, taking a breath, himself. "Right. What is it?"

"They say the Warden-Commander's second is a mage by the name of Anders and talk amongst the Templars names him apostate and murderer." Alistair doesn't flinch. The Wardens have always counted rogues amongst their numbers; nothing new about that. He waits, and Berwick shrugs, then continues. "All right, but there's more. They've seen the pair in public, and him always with his arm around her. Every member of the caravan confirmed the story. People say they're lovers, openly, and there is no word to the contrary from the Keep or the Commander."

"You're certain of this?"

"Wouldn't have brought it to you at all, if I wasn't. It's a fact that they've been seen together in public, with his arms around her. What people say, that's up for debate, but there's no doubt about his identity, or about them being seen together. There were a lot of people travelling with that caravan. I talked to all of them, and not together. Every one of them had a story that involved those two, and how they were together. They're in the city all the time. The thing that spurred me to come speak to you... After the caravan left, another cart came along later the same day, and that couple had some of the same things to say."

Alistair presses his lips together and rubs at the knot between his eyebrows. "Anything else?"

Berwick shakes his head. "No, that's all, but I thought I better come back and tell you what I heard," he says, sympathetic.

Alistair nods. "Thank you."

The elf claps him on the shoulder. "Take care of yourself," he says, taking his leave.

Alistair runs his hands through his hair, leaving the chantry as quickly as he can, before he does something stupid. Like start screaming. She did it again. She sodding _did it again_, just like the night she took off after Orzammar, spending it with that _assassin_, but he wasn't there to come along in the morning this time, was he, to stop her tumbling into his arms like some kind of love-starved alley cat.

He thought they were over this, that they were past it, that everything would be all right. He remembers the words they spoke, parting in the palace courtyard, and they are vile on his tongue, they tear at his heart, sharp as shattered glass. He stalks back to the barracks, goes straight to the training hall, and beats the stuffing out of three of the dummies in succession, all the things they said to each other burning in his mind like a brand, every moment of love cutting like a knife, every opportunity when he could have turned back mocking him bitterly.

_You left me behind again._

"Abelas, Alistair, I have been selfish."

For a little while, we could sleep, and the world could be all right for a few hours without us.

"I am tired of secrets, and all the pain they carry."

I won't let you fall.

"Please forgive me?"

I say to myself, 'there is the woman I love'.

"I swear to you, I will bond with no other."

_What do you need? What do you need?_

Makers breath! What is it going to take?

Nothing. Nothing, nothing, and more nothing; none of it is ever good enough. There's no holding on to her; she's left him behind, finally. He drops the practice sword back into the bucket, makes his way to his room, and throws himself into his bunk. Alone, in the darkness, while the rest of the denizens of the guard barracks are sleeping off the last hours before dawn, Alistair curls up on himself, wraps his arms around his head, and fails at trying not to cry.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

_1st day of Justinian, 9:34_

It is the end of another long day, and the soldiers retire to the inn at Redcliffe, bone-tired but triumphant. Another skirmish with the darkspawn has proven successful, and it's only the third one since the beginning of last month. They are having difficulty locating large bands, and so the captains are saying that they might be finished with their work soon. Talk amongst them is all towards homes, family, and future plans. The heady early-summer air holds the promise of warmer days to come, and the people are smiling at the prospect of a kind growing-season.

Alistair stands outside the chantry, speaking to Murdoch. They are going over last-minute details of the report he's prepared to take to Finn, Alistair just double-checking his figures: weapons, knights and troops, civilian casualties, darkspawn tallied, skirmish dates.

The thought that he'll have to face _her_ eventually, because she's his _superior_ grates across his mind, leaving him on edge, the closer he gets to leaving. He's had the worst time trying to focus on his work when all that keeps going through his head is an endless litany of Finn. Everything he ever loved about her, and all the things she has done since then that have stabbed him through the heart and filled him with anger and bitterness. The bitterness has won out. Sodding fickle elf can keep her pet apostate; he just wants to turn in his report and be done with the whole business.

"...actually found another cache of armour in the house of- As I live and breathe," Murdoch says, interrupting himself, and Alistair looks at him, but Murdoch's focus is over Alistair's shoulder, so he turns around.

Finn is coming down the hill, no mistaking her, he would know her anywhere, even in the dark. She's got her arms wrapped around her waist, and she seems smaller than she once was. Maybe it's just that she no longer stands so tall in his regard. She trudges along, weary, looking at the ground, and the man next to her has his arm around her shoulders. Even if the robes he wears didn't name him mage, it's obvious to Alistair from the heavy aura of power surrounding the man that this will undoubtedly be Anders. She is nodding to whatever the mage is telling her as they come down the hill. She wipes at her face and tucks her hair behind her ear, looking sick and miserable.

He folds his arms over his chest and watches them come, feeling like stone. She looks up as she mounts the stairs to the chantry, and sees him. She stops suddenly and stumbles backward off the steps, going pale as a ghost, completely shocked. Anders steadies her, keeps her from falling on her back in the dirt. Alistair sets his jaw, trying to tamp down a surge of the wild anger he felt that first night, four months ago now, and strides down the stairs to put himself on a level with her, even though he knows he looms over her. He works at staying absolutely stoic, wearing the face of a soldier like a shield.

"Commander," he says flatly, acknowledging her status, though it galls him. Her jaw drops, and she looks completely horrified, stumbling back another step. Anders steadies her, but then folds his arms over his chest. She covers her mouth with both hands, staring at him with her wide, blue eyes. He grits his teeth. "Is my continued presence in Redcliffe so surprising? In the absence of other orders, I've done my duty." He is aware of how square his shoulders are, of how correct his posture, and he looks down at her, utterly refusing to bend his head to her. "What do you need?"

She flinches, and he feels his lip curling. She reveals her agitation by babbling at him in Elvish, all in a breathless rush. "_Aravel vir'din!_" she says, looking sick. She holds out her hands, as though to stop him from moving. "_Emma ir abelas; isala n'atisha emma ma'in! Ma reth melanen! Alistair, him da'emma ma'din..._"1 She looks panicked, and he waits impatiently, knowing she will eventually realize she's not speaking the common tongue and start over. Ah, there it is. She shakes her head, as though to clear it, and swallows, hard.

She reaches behind her, going for her sword, and he is incredulous. Surely she's not going to attack him? She pulls it off her back and offers it to him, over the flats of her palms, and he glances away from her agonized face to look down at it. "Alistair, by the gods, they said you were dead when this came to me by messenger; I came here to find your _grave_."

It's Duncan's. His. He looks at it, unsure for the first time, and takes it, turning it over in his hand. It's no copy; there's the little line near the guard, where it had weathered from sticking out of the dead ogre at Ostagar, bared to the elements for so long. He never had been able to get it out, not quite. He looks up at her. "Who told you this?"

"A dead messenger from Rainsefere, from here. You never answered any of my letters..." She covers her mouth again, horrified.

"I didn't get a word from you." He studies her critically. "Didn't you try to contact Arl Eamon, to ask about me? Surely he would never have said so..."

"The only correspondence I've been getting has come out of Denerim. And the Grand Cleric," she amends, hastily.

He stares at her, hardening to stone again. "That's not an answer. You didn't check, did you. Just accepted I was dead and," he glances at Anders, "got on with your life." He looks down at the blade, then back up at her. "It's hardly proof positive."

She blanches, but rallies, her voice growing stronger as she defends herself. "No letters came to me from here; everything went unanswered. I knew there were darkspawn here; I stopped trying to get through after almost a year of trying. What would be the point in sending another letter to Rainesfere, whether to you, or Arl Eamon, or Bann Teagan, or even sodding Lloyd, if I never even got a response from _you_, of _all_ people?" She looks down at the sword.

"I _know_ this sword. It's yours. It _was_ Duncan's. I remember the night I gave it to you, and I could not _imagine_ a situation where you would let go of it, and not be dead, particularly not with the message coming to me that you _were_. They were hardly going to bring your body all the way to Amaranthine, or wait for me to manage to make it all the way here, before burying you, were they?"

Tears are beginning to gather in her eyes, and he grabs hold of his heart, crushing it, trying to remain impassive, to stay critical, logical, to not be swayed by emotion. She struggles with something, and finally says, "And I did _not_ just... _move on_." She says quietly, and swallows. "I was worse than you've ever seen me; I don't even remember those first two months. I just remember... standing at the top of the tower, that night." She looks down.

"The only reason she stands here, right now, is because I caught her when she jumped," Anders murmurs.

His gaze moves to Anders. Either she moved on or she didn't, that's all that matters, isn't it? The details are almost irrelevant. It's been months, not years; how long would he have taken before he turned to another woman if Finn had died? He thinks of Bella's sweet regard with emptiness, and knows it might even have been impossible. He looks at the mage, suspicious and hostile; he only has one question, now, and everything hangs on it. "And having caught her? What then? Are the rumours true, mage?" He turns to Finn. "Is he your lover?"

Anders says, "No," drawing the word out a bit, sounding disappointed, and sighs.

Finn keeps her eyes on her boots. She never could look him in the eye when she felt guilty. "He's been my best friend," she says, and Alistair glances back at Anders again.

Is the mage lying? Alistair doesn't know him well enough to say one way or the other, but he doesn't seem to be heartbroken, so maybe that's the truth. "Look at me, Finn," he says, and when she doesn't, he curls his finger under her chin and makes her tip her head back, searching her eyes for the truth. He knows how much middle ground there is with her, how close she came to falling into the assassin's arms. If she kept faith... Most of all, what he finds in her face is sorrow and sick horror.

"You stayed true to me?" He wants it to be true, desperately wants it. If it's true there's a way forward from here, if not...

"I told you I wouldn't bond with anyone else. I haven't. I _died_ that day. I thought you left me behind." He stares at her, internally at war with himself. Does he trust her? Not hardly. Does he want to? Maker's breath, more than anything else. He swallows, hard, losing the battle to be cynical.

He takes her by the shoulders, looking into her eyes. "Tell me you've been faithful, Finn."

"_Emma uth na'asha__2_, Alistair," she whispers, her lip trembling, tears rolling out of those blue, blue eyes. He's a sucker, he knows it. She's hiding behind her Elvish again, shifting and flitting through her foggy shades of grey. "I'm your girl," she translates, after a momentary pause. "I always have been. Every minute."

If she's lying, he'll regret this, bitterly, later. On the other hand, if she's telling the truth, and he sends her away, he's losing so much that they worked so hard just to keep, just to build in the first place.

"_Abelas_, I should have come sooner, it just hurt _so much_... It took me six months just to reach a point where I could even _think_ about coming here to look for you. The idea of my world without you was nothing but dust and ashes. I was so broken," she whispers, lifting her hand, tentatively; she touches his cheek, and he closes his eyes. He can smell her, rosemary and rain, wind and wood smoke, and he knows, he can't turn her away.

He sighs, leaning into her hand, pressing it against his cheek with his own, and kisses her palm fiercely. She sobs, and he pulls her against his chest, burying his face in her hair, a horrible knot of tension releasing in his chest as she wraps her arms around his neck.

This time, when they kiss, it is bitter sweet and salted with their tears.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

As soon as the man addresses Finn as "Commander", Anders knows this must be Alistair. There's only one Grey Warden in Ferelden he doesn't know. He answers true, when he is asked: Finn's not his lover. Even if he had succeeded in hanging on to her, even if the messenger _had_ been correct, she still wouldn't have been his. She wasn't even his last night. Though she was physically there, and responded to his touch, in the drowsiness of the afterglow she called him 'Alistair', and broke his heart.

He had thought, maybe, if she was content to lie in his arms, eventually he could make her forget, or at least bring himself into her sphere, but that's not going to happen now. He can tell by the way she immediately forgets his presence that all he could accomplish with the truth of last night's ill-advised activity would be to tear them up. After he's spent so much time and energy just trying to get her over the self-destructive grief she's been through, to waste it all on one selfish impulse would gain him nothing, and lose _them_ everything.

He knew what he had with her was fairly one-sided; the only reason she let him near was that she believed her lover dead. From her end, it was trust and loneliness, not love or desire. It could have been enough, it could have come to be something more, in time, but the time he's already had has apparently been stolen. He had said it himself, just a few nights ago: it was a gamble... and he's lost.

He sighs and turns away as she wraps her arms around Alistair's neck and kisses him ardently, everything about her completely different, realizing that what he had held was a need for solace, at best. Anders hangs his head, defeated. They're so lost in each other, she doesn't even notice when he walks away.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Finn drops back, her fingers whispering over Alistair's face, still hardly daring to believe. "This is real, right? I haven't just completely cracked? No blinding flash of light?" He smiles and chuckles under his breath.

"Does it feel like a dream to you?"

"Could be. I've had this one a thousand times in the last year and a half," she murmurs. She runs her fingertips over his eyebrows, her thumbs across his lips, the stubble on his cheeks scratching her palms, and she shakes her head. "Hmm... No, in my dream, you shaved."

He laughs, his own fingers tracing her tattoo, and she closes her eyes, leaning into his hand. "This can't happen again," he says, and she looks up at him. "It's too much. I can't take it."

She shakes her head, more tears coursing down her cheeks. "I would go mad," she whispers, the feathery texture of his hair tickling between her fingers. "It couldn't."

He sighs. "I suppose you have to get back to your arling," he says, but she laughs.

"No, I abdicated. I couldn't do my job like that. Without you, I lost my heart for it. We're just Wardens, same as ever." He rests his forehead against hers, and she stretches up on her toes to kiss him again, softly. She looks around, finally, and spots Anders at the top of the hill, heading toward the inn. She bites her lip and looks up at Alistair. "I need to speak to Anders before we do anything else, though."

"I think he has feelings for you," Alistair says.

She sighs, and nods. "He does. I... I'll be right back," she says, and kisses him once more. She glances up the hill, then back at Alistair, one more time, before she takes off after Anders.

She reaches him just as he's about to make the ascent to the inn. "Anders! Wait," she says, catching his hand. He stops, but doesn't turn around. "Hey," she says, softly, coming around in front of him to look up into his face. He is trying to hide his pain, but she can see it; she knows him too well. She reaches up and strokes the backs of her fingers over his cheek. "I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I never expected this."

"I know," he says.

"If I had known, last night-"

"If you had known, we wouldn't be here at all, right now, and last night would never have happened." He folds his arms across his chest, looking down at her. There's nothing she can say to that; it's true. She looks down.

"It was never my intention to toy with your heart. I'm sorry things have turned out this way..." She looks up at him again. "Thank you, for saying 'no'."

"I told the truth," he says, shaking his head. "You know you called me by his name, last night?"

Her mouth drops open, aghast. "I did? Creators, _abelas_; that's _awful_."

He just shakes his head. "It was honest, though, wasn't it. You weren't really there."

She sighs, sadly. "You've been the best friend I could ever have asked for, Anders; I'm so grateful for everything you've done for me... I want you to be happy; I always have. You deserve better than I could have given you."

He shakes his head again. "You warned me, and I took my chances. I can't regret what time I had; I just..." He looks away. "I envy him."

"I'll always care for you," she murmurs, pained, and takes a breath. "You're leaving, aren't you." It isn't really a question; she knows the answer. He nods.

"I'll stay the night, since it's already paid for, but in the morning... yes."

"Then... this is goodbye?" He nods again. She throws her arms around his neck and hugs him fiercely. "I will miss you, you know." Hesitantly, he puts his arms around her, but then he hugs her back, pressing his face into her neck, and she can feel the tension in his shoulders. She drops back, after a long moment, looking up at him again. "I'll always have your back, no matter what. You can call on me, for anything. I owe you my life."

He smirks, running his thumb over her cheekbone. "Use it well, then." He kisses her on the forehead, and turns away. She watches after him until he disappears into the inn, but he doesn't look back. Sighing sadly, once more, she turns and heads back down to the chantry. Her joy is irrepressible, though, and she breaks into a run when she sees Alistair again, throwing herself into his arms.

"Let's... let's go somewhere else. There's so much we need to catch up on," she breathes in his ear.

"In that case," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around her waist, "Let me show you that house I told you about." She stares at him in surprise, and he smiles. "Did you think I was making it up?" He kisses her again, and she goes a little breathless, pressing herself against him, on fire for the surety and safety she feels in the strong circle of his arms.

"_Vir adahlen_,"3 she whispers. "I am strongest when I stand with you. I'll never leave your side." He takes her hand, leading her around the corner of the chantry and down into the houses that line the edge of the lake.

"Good, because I can't have a straying wife," he says, looking at her seriously, and her breath catches.

"Wife?"

"Of course." His eyes twinkle, amused that he's caught her flat-footed. "We can't have a house otherwise, can we?"

She chokes on a laugh. "Will the Chantry even allow that? A human and an elf?"

"We're our own people," he says, quoting her. "We make our own rules. And I say: if you're my family, that makes you my wife. Any arguments?" he asks the world, at large, but there is, of course, no response. "And you? Do you argue?"

She shakes her head, mutely, eyes shining. "I bind myself to you, for as many days as we have left, until the Calling drags us to the Deep Roads, where I will stand with you, until the last," she says, going up on her toes to kiss him again. He picks her up, and she wraps her legs around his waist as he fumbles with the latch on a door that leads into a certain house, their house, the door opening onto a million possible futures, and in all of them, as far as she can see, she is at his side, through all of whatever may come.

"_Emma uth na'asha_," she whispers, when he lays her on the bed. "Forever, Alistair."

This time, when they kiss, it is a bond.

Elvish:  
1. _Aravel vir'din! Emma ir abelas; isala n'atisha emma ma'in! Ma reth melanen! Alistair, him da'emma ma'din..._ – I have walked a long way down the wrong path! I am filled with sorrow; I need the peace I only find with you! You have been safe all this time! Alistair, I have become so small without you..."  
2. _Emma uth na'asha_ – I'm always your woman  
3. _Vir adahlen_ – literally "way of the forest", meaning: we are strongest when we stand together


End file.
